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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29302302">Men of Notoriety</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiIenzo/pseuds/aiIenzo'>aiIenzo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mass Effect: Andromeda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Relationship Study, reyes just has a lot of feelings, scott ryder is a little shit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:34:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>28,090</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29302302</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiIenzo/pseuds/aiIenzo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s an easy thing, to give someone the time of day when it seems to be the only luxury they crave. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Male Ryder | Scott/Reyes Vidal</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Men of Notoriety</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/skelli/gifts">skelli</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/skelli/profile">skelli</a>, who inspired me to challenge the way I view these characters, encouraged me to try new themes, and single-handedly brought back my love for Andromeda. They have been a guiding light on reclaiming my desire to write for this fandom, and I owe them so much. Parts of this were heavily influenced by their work, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23626261">Starlight</a>, which is not only a staggeringly beautiful, in-depth and detailed look at Ryder and Reyes's relationship, but is also one of the best pieces of fanfiction I have ever had the pleasure to read, in any fandom. Thank you, skelli, for dedicating so much of your time to me &lt;3</p>
<p>And a massive thank you to my beta, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/yukiayanami/pseuds/yukiayanami">yukiayanami</a>, for dealing with my run on sentences and my detestable pre-posting anxiety. &lt;3 you.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Scott Ryder is the Initiative's poster boy, and not a single individual lost in the chaos of rebuilding a fractured empire has yet to question the validity of the title. He is, without a doubt, their official (if still ambiguous) guiding hand, the beacon of light in an otherwise dark and foreboding galaxy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What part of the Nexus he’s meant to represent, though, seems dependant on the person recounting the story (and how badly the Initiative screwed them over personally). Rumors flow, as they often do, with details changing under the fingerprints of the next lifeform to pass on the quiet, scandalous whispers -- a disease of misinformation and wild gossip. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Did you hear? The Pathfinder was drunk again at Kralla’s on Kadara the other night. That Krogan had to haul him back to the ship -- I’m serious! Bet it never makes the vids, though. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I heard he never even made it back. Probably went home with a local -- they didn’t cut his dick off when they put that AI into him, right? Everyone’s gotta get laid. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I dunno. Heard he’s been causing problems at the Nexus, people don’t like-- </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>--Fuck off, the Nexus loves him--</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>What about that vehicle? Is he authorized to use aftermarket parts? His engineer was at my shop the other day, bartering for an adaptive matrix. Ryder would have to authorize that, wouldn’t he? Is that, you know…sanctioned?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Are you kidding? The kid can do no wrong. You save a fucking species, Tann is going to turn a blind eye to some bullshit now and then; the rest of us sure as fuck do.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>--Tann didn’t like when he saved the Krogan though, did he? No diplomatic ties for a Salarian to gain from that. Besides, I heard he doesn’t even report to Tann anymore. Told that puffed-up gecko to go fuck himself. I give it two months before he goes rouge from the pressure.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>--Rouge, okay man--</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>For real though, you know what his fucking problem is? Vidal. He’s always hitting that son of bitch up when he docks at the port. Saw that shithead playing cards with the crew a few weeks back, pleased as all hell. He’s a bad influence to a squeaky clean thing like Ryder. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The problem with most rumors is that they were once rooted in fact. Or at least, part of one. Was Scott Ryder a little more problematic than the Initiative would like him to be? Sure. But the same could be said of the Milky Way species as a whole, and if you asked Scott (which no one ever does save Vetra, who finds these topics an endless sort of amusement), he was portraying them </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfectly </span>
  </em>
  <span>-- the flaws were just bonus transparency. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Did he get drunk with his crew at Kralla’s Song periodically? Absolutely. But no one had enough of a problem to take it up with him personally, and presenting a pristine persona was so low on his priority list it didn’t even make the quarterly itinerary.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Did he tell Tann to go fuck himself? Maybe. But as the proclaimed savior for an entire galaxy, he was a little stressed at being issued power-hungry orders from a cranky bureaucrat in a cushioned chair. Especially one that was all too ready to spit on each and every one of their accomplishments if wasn’t recorded in a post-battle report for Tann to tick with little red marks of “needs improvement.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Did he sign off on his crew’s official requests to bring aboard modded hardware? Absolutely not. But maybe he transferred most of his per diems to the metaphorical “for the good of the team” penny jar, which bought everything from rounds of shots, to Angaran delicacies (which they tried as a group in a very immature “triple-dog-dare you!” circle that affronted Jaal for days on end), to various parts that were brought under inventory as “mission-critical” items, barring further description. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Did he keep his ‘poster boy’ image as intact and scandal-free as his superiors would have liked? Not at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And was Reyes Vidal his “fucking problem?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, maybe. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Can you secure a shuttle? Off record?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes casts his eyes up, studying Ryder, who is sprawled out on the couch opposite of him. He’d dropped by not fifteen minutes ago, Reyes’s room being an easy retreat from the litany of </span>
  <em>
    <span>help me, Pathfinder, my cousin’s friend’s boyfriend ran off to live a better life and you MUST bring him back!</span>
  </em>
  <span> bullshit that seemed to plague him the moment he set foot on any planet, civilized or otherwise. Reyes figured him to be asleep, a literal timebomb of stress that was content to leave Reyes to his backlog of transmissions if Reyes left him to his momentary peace. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A routine and quiet understanding: fragile, and apt to shatter the moment they examined it. Which, of course, they never did. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now though, Reyes lowers his datapad and gives Ryder most of his attention. As time had passed, it became far too easy for him to recognize the man on his couch as </span>
  <em>
    <span>painfully </span>
  </em>
  <span>human; though, that may be less about his constantly fluctuating need to see Scott as the renowned Pathfinder, the asset (and nothing more), and more about how much Ryder seems to just... genuinely enjoy his company. Or, at the very least, the lack of anyone else’s.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s an easy thing, to give someone the time of day when it seems to be the only luxury they crave.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can secure whatever you need, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pathfinder.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder makes a face at the prodding, his eyes still shut as if he could coerce sleep through nothing but sheer iron will. Reyes allows the pull of a smile, with no one there to see. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Got something that can make it to Elaaden? And some bikes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course. The bikes will cost you though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Ryder opens his eyes blearily to glare at Reyes. It could almost be endearing if Reyes hadn’t spent two hours earlier watching vids of this same man slice his omniblade through a kett’s neck out in the Badlands. He can still see faint traces of inky blood on Scott’s armor, a shadowy reminder of the undeniable salience of the man lounging across from him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah? And what’s the going price, Vidal?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a clear edge to his voice, a flagrant reminder that Scott hasn’t forgotten who he is, nor what he does. Sloane’s blood still stains that barren cave, and although Ryder forgave him almost too easily in that moment, a smirk of satisfaction threatening to tarnish that plastic, professional neutrality, Reyes knows Ryderwon’t pretend he’s an innocent man. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes, he seems to thrive on simply reminding himself of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A charitable donation to the Collective wouldn’t go amiss,” he suggests, as though it might be an afterthought. The Collective doesn’t need the credits </span>
  <em>
    <span>nor </span>
  </em>
  <span>the supplies, but he likes watching Ryder take a few steps down that proverbial ladder of righteousness. He likes watching him do it simply because Reyes asks. He likes watching him do most anything, really. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder snorts, because they’ve played this game before, and it's less about the cards on the table, and more about the dynamic of participation. Winning heralds the end of the match, and Reyes isn’t keen on finding new competition. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder waves his hand lazily in the air as if trying to recall a thought. “SAM, have Cora set aside that, uh… the caches of disrupter ammo we found a few weeks ago.” A pause. “SAM?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“A moment, Pathfinder,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>SAM’s voice rings fluidly through Reyes’s private room, a tick of silence following. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Lieutenant Harper is inquiring to your reasoning.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For the greater good of Kadara Port,” Reyes interjects. Ryder looks half-relieved he doesn’t have to answer, choosing instead to let Reyes take the reigns while he sinks further into the cushions beneath him. A grown man hiding from his responsibility, much like a child pulls his feet in from the edge of the bed lest the unseen monsters beneath drag him under. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s another pause, before -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Incoming call, Pathfinder,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> SAM advises, but Cora is already on the line. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Vidal, I know it’s you,” she sibilates, disdain coating her words. </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Greater good of Kadara Port?’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>We didn’t spend six hours on Netiquur looking for Initiative property just so you could… </span>
  <em>
    <span>coax </span>
  </em>
  <span>it out of him like this! And for what? He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he doesn’t need your--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lieutenant Harper,” Reyes blusters, pouring every ounce of fabricated shock into his words as he can muster. “There’s no need for accusations. I assure you that this is a legitimate trade deal, brokered between myself and your </span>
  <em>
    <span>illustrious </span>
  </em>
  <span>Pathfinder--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, blow it out your ass, Vidal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She ends the call abruptly, leaving a half-hidden Ryder grinning into his arm and Reyes watching him with a satisfaction he never, ever anticipates. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m quite certain she doesn’t like me, Ryder.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"I</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>barely like you,” Scott retorts, and it’s such utter bullshit Reyes doesn’t think even </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>could say it with a straight face. “But I’ll consider tolerating you if you can get that shuttle here in the next twenty minutes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes is already swiping at his omnitool, his people scrambling to arrange his request, dedicated to their next paycheck and faceless leader with alarming ferocity. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If I get it here in ten, you may even have to admit you enjoy my company.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder grins, and for a moment, it negates the weariness that settles like a mask across his face. The one Reyes never sees him wear in public. “Keep dreaming, buddy.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In the two hours it takes for the FTL drive to get them from Kadara to Elaaden, Reyes watches Scott hammer down an energy drink, two bottles of water, a protein bar, and the less revolting half of an MRE, while his armor protests lightly against his casual flop in the co-pilot’s seat. Reyes is tempted to snap a photo, amusing himself with the hypothetical fallout of plastering the Initiative walls with their shining beacon of prosperity -- their icon! -- his mouth full of half-chewed, not-quite-barbequed-beef as he tears off through space in an illegally acquired shuttle with an exile as his pilot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Briefly, he wonders who else gets to see the Pathfinder like this, and then vanishes the thought before it could upset the delicate balance of purpose and utilization he keeps at the forefront of every choreographed movement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though, if he admits it, he rather likes that Ryder can still take him by surprise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And </span>
  <em>
    <span>god, </span>
  </em>
  <span>does Ryder talk. He talks about his crew, and whatever horrible meal Suvi burned in the kitchen. He babbles about Liam’s echoing laughter and hazardous piles of laundry, Peebee’s tendencies to abscond with anything not nailed down (and her dedication to prying up the stuff that </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span>), and how Kallo routinely wakes everyone on board as he strolls through the halls, muttering and examining and </span>
  <em>
    <span>remembering</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Scott speaks about these grievances with a contrary fondness, as though these problems were his favorite parts to recall in the chaotic whirlwind of his new identity. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He talks about Aya, and Reyes doesn’t let on that he’s seen it before, too engrossed in watching Ryder recount the beauty. Reyes had been so focused on his contacts at the time, the jobs he had to pull for Evfra under that ridiculous codename, that the tiny portion of Aya he saw from orbit had been nothing but a blur of color and noise and a sense of peace he couldn’t afford to entertain. He forgets, sometimes. His big picture won’t be as impressive as he hopes if he keeps forgetting these little details. Scott, ironically, reminds Reyes of those while still manufacturing the very canvas Reyes strives to paint. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder asks things, once those calories start hitting and the second wind is found. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you ever see London, back on Earth? We only went planetside every few years. Vacations, you know?” </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Reyes tells him he hadn’t. He spent his childhood in Bolivia, then moved on to Omega the first chance he got. Ryder frowns at this, momentary concern for Reyes’s upbringing taking precedence over the excitement, the calling of novelty</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Reyes can see so clearly the different lines that define them in that moment. Eventually though, Ryder smirks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what did you get up to on Omega, Reyes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes shrugs, because most of it isn’t a happy memory. Ryder knows that, but they’ll deflect. They deflect </span>
  <em>
    <span>so well. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s a dance they’ve been practicing since the lackluster evening of a monotonous week had brought Scott Ryder to his doorstep. Reyes had tested Scott’s resolve by standing a little too close, and Scott, in turn, had tested Reyes right back by letting him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Street smarts,” he sasses back. “I could teach you sometime.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder smiles into his MRE leftovers and stabs at them mildly with a fork, avoiding the invitation as though his acquiescence would betray him if he dared open his mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott’s enthusiasm only gets worse once they land, hundreds of miles away from any colony, and he’s grinning madly as they step out into the sun. A sheltered teenager sneaking out after curfew. Reyes can see the stony edges of his posture fade the further they get from Initiative rule, and it would almost be heartbreaking if Reyes weren’t so endearingly cautious of the unique position he’s managed to cultivate for himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Pathfinder’s stress relief. The one person in this entire fucking galaxy that he wasn’t afraid to be judged by. No one to impress here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No one to save. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They unload the bikes from the back, pristine and equipped with back tire paddles to help them traverse the sandy dunes that stretch out before them like the white crestings of a thousand waves. Only a few hundred of these bikes made it to Andromeda, and the exiles only managed to grab a dozen as they fled. They’ll be worth a lot less after today’s use, but Reyes finds he doesn’t mind so much. Not when Ryder is laughing at Reyes’s poorly timed jokes and running his hands fondly across that illegally acquired dirtbike in a way that almost looks indecent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott shucks his armor piece by piece, taking off The Pathfinder branding like a rather cumbersome jacket. The pieces are chucked back into the shuttle until only the lower half remains, and Scott wastes no time in unzipping the undersuit until he’s bare from the hips up, tying the arms around his waist so they’d stay secure. Reyes passes him a pair of ballistic sunglasses and takes great care not to touch any of that glistening, inviting skin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As they mount their bikes, with Reyes wisely not questioning a single unexpected moment of this trip, Ryder stills, stiffens, and then sighs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. Tell them I’ll be back in a few hours, alright?” A conversation with SAM. Reyes stays silent, listening from afar.. “… No, I told Liam-- Don’t put Lexi on, SAM-- Heyyyy, Lexi. No, I’m fine. I’m just out for a bit, okay? ...I’m on Elaaden.” A pause. Reyes watches as the tension builds back into Scott’s shoulders as he listens to the Asari, a ripple that starts at the base of his spine and spreads out like a disease until his muscles are primed and ready for confrontation. “I told Liam and Drack already, they know to look out for it. No, I’m not alone, I’m with…” A sideways look, almost apologetic. “Reyes, yeah. …It’s fine, I promise. I just need a bit, okay? Shore leave. You should try it.” A feeble smile, hopeful, yet not fully committed to its own existence. It wavers like a plucked string. “Yeah. I know. Yeah. ...Okay. Thanks, Lexi.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The calls ends and Ryder’s fingers tighten on the grips of the handlebars, a fluctuation of pressure and catharsis. Tension, and forced relaxation. His exposed back remains taut and rigid. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes doesn’t usually respond to vulnerability. He plays for the opposite side -- focusing on those whose heads are too big to fit into their golden-rimmed doorways. He prefers his weaknesses deeply layered and exploitable only if you’ve done the work, not out on sleeves where anyone can make a claim. But supposes that if anyone deserves forgiveness for such a sin, it’s the Pathfinder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Scott </span>
  </em>
  <span>deserves forgiveness. The Pathfinder is someone he only sees in videos, cut and edited beautifully by the Nexus to portray Scott as exactly who he's meant to be: the fair and efficient fighter, who never plays dirty. The charitable first contact specialist, who greets Angaran counsel members like cherished associates. The Ai logo at the forefront of every shot, clean of blood and debris and trauma; face and personality not required. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Casually, as though the exchange had never happened, Reyes forgoes the automatic protocols and resets the bike to a manual override, forcing him to kickstart the engine. The guttural growl echos across the vast expanse before them -- once, twice, three times before it roars to life, an old-world sound for a new-world order. Something cracks and breaks within Scott at something so medieval, and his back loosens as he accepts Reyes’s distraction with a small smile and a snort of laughter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I charge by the hour, Scott,” Reyes calls imploringly, his voice barely carrying over the rumble of the engine beneath him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott turns to look at him, nothing but miles of skin and and a smirk so deadly Reyes has to focus hard to keep his disposition with that kind of enthralling attention on him. Ryder kicks down </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>,</em> spurring his bike to life so quickly that Reyes knows the bastard is having SAM help him, and shoots him a grin beneath those ballistic glasses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes takes off first, claiming the lead that Ryder was all too ready to have taken from him, at least for the moment. The shifting sand beneath his tires is wholly different than the rocky terrain of Kadara, and for a horrible moment he waits to lose control and slip down the curving dunes with nothing but a scratched bike and damaged ego to show for his troubles. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>It’s been a long time since he was last on wheels, and even longer since he’d traversed the white sands of Bolivia, but trained habits never really fade, and he regains control with an ease that he hopes looks as natural as he pretends it is. He picks up speed along the crest of the first silica dune, traversing the ridge and riding that thin line of danger that could send him careening down into the bowl below. He can hear Ryder move in close behind him, following his expertly laid trail with a revving enthusiasm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Within minutes, Reyes is reckless, flying over the lips of sand until he can feel his bike being lifted from the ground on the riskier jumps. Over the deafening sound of the wind as he barrels through the atmosphere, he thinks he can hear Ryder behind him, cheering and laughing with each new leap that takes them further away from the control they only barely cling to. The flying sand stings his exposed skin when he turns too sharply, and the sun beats down on him mercilessly, but he’s grinning into the sunlight, lost in the rise and fall of the landscape before him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, Ryder passes him, a dangerous move in this kind of arena, and the little shit doesn’t bother playing it safe as he cuts Reyes off on the ridge of a particularly steep dune. The echoing sound of the bike’s muffler as it passes him will haunt Reyes’s waking dreams, and the glimpse of Ryder’s skin as he passes is surely a crime in and of itself. Ryder laughs as he takes over, a role that now feels as natural as following used to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes once read that consciousness is only advantageous in limited amounts. And in an unusual spectacle, his brain starts making the executive decisions with very little consideration for Reyes’s reluctance. For the following hour, he doesn’t think of The Collective, and the pings that normally hit his omnitool with the frequency of a crisis dispatcher are replaced by the sounds of muted laughter and competitive revving. The images and video clips from the agents on the Nexus that he routinely spends reliving in his head are replaced with the view he never considered seeing: white, rolling hills, with the galaxy’s most idolized and powerful humans flying across the landscape before him with carefree abandonment, his exposed skin slowly turning golden in the sun. Scott, blaring his weaknesses to the vast sands of Elaaden, putting himself on display for the galaxy, rather than everyone in it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In one of the low valleys they tear past a half-decayed rylkor, the rich insides of protruding bones being picked and fought over by a squawking group of native birds. They give the riders little attention as they pass, but Ryder focuses in, always on the job, always looking for things to explain and deduce. Even a natural death is warrant for suspicion in the unknown, and he’s never truly free to be separated from the profession that insists on devouring him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They finally stop under the faint shade of a rare tree, the growling of their bikes giving way to a peaceful silence as they situate themselves on the cooler rocks. The tops of Ryder’s shoulders are broadcasting a worrying red, but the rest of him has soaked in the sun beautifully. There’s a fine layer of dust that coats his hair, his chest, his slightly burnt cheeks, but he looks extraordinarily pleased with himself. Reyes shucks off his own minimal armor until only his black undershirt blocks him from the elements, and gratefully takes the water ration Ryder hands him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder gulps down his own greedily, pausing only once it’s half gone, then using it to point out in the general direction of the dunes before them. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Damn things are everywhere, aren’t they?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Remnant architecture. Reyes looks, but this one seems no different than the rest, a glittering obelisk that serves as a chilling reminder that nothing here has been untouched. Others came before, and their intentions and history as still beyond knowledge. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>But he wants to keep this casual. He likes that open smile on Ryder’s face, and all the other considerations it brings along with it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s your destiny staring you down, Scott,” he chides playfully, rolling his neck to rid himself of any lingering stiffness. “Count yourself lucky that you know what you’re after, at least.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott snorts disbelievingly, and Reyes doesn’t blame him. Helius has changed too many destinies, altered too many dreams. Many that wanted to be a figurehead of expansion now simply want food. Many that wanted glory and fame now just want to grieve their dead in peace. Intentions have been twisted and torn until innocent geographers became clan leaders and surly militia officers ran soup kitchens. It’s been chaos, but Reyes has thrived because of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s it like, interfacing with that tech?” He finally asks, because he’s always wanted to know, and Scott’s happiness is an easy gateway for the answers to lingering questions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll have to ask SAM,” Scott comments lightly, the question no more suspicious than any others. “He does the hard work, I’m mostly a conductor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nonsense, I’d say you’re a catalyst, at the very least,” he admonishes playfully, but the next words come unbidden, a little warmer than intended. “Change seems to happen when you’re around, anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder doesn’t respond immediately, and when Reyes catches his eye, Scott shakes himself a bit, bemused, and points to his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry. SAM is assuring me that I’m vital and important. Again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, constant reassurance and gratitude from the galaxy’s most advanced AI. Why didn’t you tell me you suffer so badly?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder laughs, true and genuine. He drains his water completely before turning his teasing expression onto Reyes. “You sound jealous. Next you’ll be asking me for a crew implant.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes’s heart rate kicks up, and he wills it to slow, to remain neutral. An incredible offer that he’d love to keep in his back pocket. How simple it would be to formulate grievances and craft situations that would convince Ryder how </span>
  <em>
    <span>integral </span>
  </em>
  <span>it would be to have SAM’s eyes on Kadara port. But the steady influx of credits and good fortune he’s built for himself relies on segregating the right information to the right people; SAM’s predictive matrix, along with his inescapable ties to Ryder’s good will, would ultimately be his downfall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scoffs at the idea, as if it were a laughable topic. “And have SAM see all the horrid things I get up to when you’re not around? I’d much rather remain the charming stranger, thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You keep saying that,” Ryder smiles slyly, perpetually amused. “I’ve yet to see this guy you claim you are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Reyes admonishes. “I got you your bikes, didn’t I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I bought and paid for those illegally acquired bikes, nothing </span>
  <em>
    <span>charming </span>
  </em>
  <span>about it. I think you need a dictionary.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I think you need better manners. Not even a thank you,” Reyes wiles back, and there’s no fabrication to his enjoyment. He feels lighter than he did in Kadara, for once not fearing to show his skin to an inevitable target. If he’s not careful, he could get addicted to knowing exactly who he’s having drinks with, far removed from the burden of having to carefully craft his words to ensure snaring a hard-obtained contact. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because Ryder isn’t going anywhere. Not when he lets Reyes get so close in the worst kinds of ways, with very little effort on Reyes’s part. Ryder’s body is relaxed, eyes closed shut in a rare moment of leisure, drinking in the shade on his newly golden skin. Far from the safety of his team and gear, from the prying eyes that declare him a hero one moment and an utter failure the next. Far from those who need him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No. No, Ryder isn’t going anywhere any time soon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They bullshit until their nerves start to go numb from the rocks, then they stand and hover beside their bikes, unwilling to move on. The sun stays high, as it always does on Elaaden, and Reyes is grateful for the lack of streetlights that would beckon him home. They run their fingers across metal and talk about opening a bike shop, a shared interest that they can pretend isn’t a farfetched fantasy. They’d build it from the ground up, outcast style, with a bit more flair. A little bit of the Milky Way unearthed in a new land, the home comforts of terra primus. They talk about old-world parts, and Reyes mentions that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows a guy, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Ryder smiles in that indulgent sort of way that dreamers do.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>But fantasies always end. Ryder has trails to blaze, and Reyes is far too busy deciding which of those resulting fires he wants to fan, and which he wants to smother. That bike shop belongs to Scott and Reyes, not The Pathfinder and The Charlatan, and they agree to make arrangements with the same certainty they offer to most of their future.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ride back is nothing short of blissful, picking up speed in the longer valleys and racing one another up the more impressive dunes. They can’t quite match the height of some, kicking up sand as they swerve back down, eventually choosing the hill they can tackle just to make progress. But they never stop trying. They never learn. Some connection between them breeds a reckless desire to overcome, to outdo; the wild idea that, as long as one of them makes it to the top, the victory is achieved. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They arrive at the shuttle much too soon for Reyes’s liking, but he can see Ryder starting to flag, both in spirit and in body. He doesn’t ask how long it’s been since Scott has slept. That’s a conversation Ryder can have with his team, with his doctor, with all the people who will care regardless of whether he wants to them to or not. The people who will smother him with their blind concern and devotion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes won’t give a damn about any of it, if asked not to. Scott Ryder will chase a man down for that kind of comfort, and Reyes intends to give it to him. Completely free of charge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The flight back is cold after the heat of Elaaden. No matter how insulated and temperature regulated the shuttle is, space always looks cold enough to chill you to the bones. It creeps in, uninvited and smug. There’s a tangible regret as they pull their armor back on, a reminder that everything is fleeting, warmth and security included. Whatever they shared in the sands would be pushed back, buried under progress and casualties and the all-consuming responsibility that holds them both on either end of this new galaxy’s balancing scale. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott falls asleep ten minutes into the flight, his expression open and honest in its fatigue. It’s painful and young in its simplicity. Reyes flies back in the enveloping silence and tries not to regret everything he’s done that keeps him from owning a dirt bike shop with a boy from the Citadel. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes is posted high above the slums when Liam finds him. He walks softly, for a man with a presence that loud, and Reyes only takes notice of him when it’s far too late to steer the course of their unavoidable conversation. Liam has bought the high ground here by seeking him out, and Reyes can only wait like the cornered man he is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam’s arms come to rest on the guardrail in front of them, still half rusted from the sickening sulfur that once polluted the air. Another tribute to the time before the Pathfinder; a harrowing reminder of utterly fucked they’d be if mercy was never an option. There’s no armor covering those arms today, only an Initiative branded hoodie thrown over a flight suit. Casual, but not without purpose.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not who you were expecting?” Liam asks, gaze focused on whatever part of the slums that calls out most to his betterment neurosis. There’s a scuffle happening three decks below them, a drunk Turian throwing blows with a frightened human, but Liam barely spares it a glance. An </span>
  <em>
    <span>earnest </span>
  </em>
  <span>purpose, then. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Quite glad it’s you, actually,” Reyes counters. “Normally the people who sneak up on me have ill intentions.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An invitation to prove him wrong. Or right, depending on where this is going. Words are weapons, as blunt and cruel and damaging as any other. Liam’s a relative unknown when he’s not at the Pathfinder’s side, perpetually ready to take whatever bullets he could for the sake of prosperity. Never before has Ryder’s crew sought him out without Scott directing the interaction, and even those barely sober card games at the dingy table in Kralla’s came with the safety of a crowd. He knows a lot of things about Liam Kosta, but those chips matter little when Liam doesn’t play for money.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey now, I’m here peacefully,” Kosta admonishes, fingers releasing their grip on the bar for only a moment, just enough to show an empty palm of a friendly yield. “You should probably watch your back though, in the future. Can’t imagine you have many friends other than us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not said with any cruelty, but the truth in it sits heavy, a burden of consequence. Blunt is Liam’s style, ready to face most all his problems head-on, even if it means busting his skull in the process. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Other than us </span>
  </em>
  <span>is said with the same brisk efficiency, another facet of an undeniable truth. There’s no spite in his inflection, to the recognition of association in Liam’s voice, and Reyes tries very hard not to be moved by it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam is an easy target. His candid honesty and ease of temper would make for simple pickings, were Reyes to try and deduce what motive lingers beneath the obvious. But Liam is here alone, and Reyes gets the feeling that Liam is doing him a favor, so he swallows his usual rapport and begins to steer the conversation towards its feigned purpose. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, then what can the slums do you for, Kosta?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>What can The Charlatan do? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Is hidden within his question, but he knows Liam, the savior of the disenfranchised. A guy like Liam doesn’t pull big names, doesn’t rely on a leader to make results. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>people </span>
  </em>
  <span>he cares about. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That he’s here to see Reyes is all the more disconcerting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You heard about the Paarchero?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam’s voice slips into something dangerous, a wound that healed with the shrapnel still inside, ripping him apart beneath the surface. Of course Reyes has heard. It sent half the port into a panic when the news arrived, a ripple of anguish and horror that momentarily united them in shock. Tortured Salarians, the reports had said. Half dissected bodies strewn across the ark like rejected playthings. Terror, cataclysmic and raw. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I did,” he answers levely. “Your pilot must have taken it badly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The whole damn </span>
  <em>
    <span>species </span>
  </em>
  <span>took it badly,” Liam bites back, but the anger isn’t directed at Reyes. Liam’s anger rarely seems to </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>a direction, broadcast out of him much like his worry; no purpose, no outlook, relying on others to guide it towards a resolution. Liam cares deeply, too deeply, and it’ll be the death of him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes doesn’t answer. Liam needs the moment to chew over his next words, and Reyes is busy looking for places to evaluate the purpose of his unexpected visit. He knows it has to do with the Pathfinder. Things always do these days.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry. It’s uh, still new,” Liam says finally. “I’ve seen some shit, but that takes the whole fucked up cake.” He scratches idly as his head, as if empathy was an embarrassment here. Flawed, but not ignorant, then. “So uh, what’s the rumor mill been spilling? About the flagship, I mean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes shrugs. Annoyingly, he hadn’t gotten much information, and whatever reports that left the Tempest were heavily encrypted, courtesy of SAM. It hadn’t been worth the risk, not with Scott’s loose-fingered loyalty to the Collective so new, and so very crucial. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Word of the capture came from my Salarian agents,” he answers. “Family members and colleagues weren’t exactly pleased to escape torture only to find out the Nexus had exiled half of their clan to the badlands, so contact hasn’t been a problem. They’re very eager to share information. I know Raeka... came at a cost.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam’s eyes rove downwards, watching the small queue of people waiting to be seen by Nakamoto in the dirt far below. Word must have caught on about the fresh shipment of supplies from The Charlatan. Reyes knows Nakamoto has been eyeing Ditaeon with more than a hopeful gaze, and he expects that the shipping container the doctor treats from will be empty in less than a week. Still, it was never a bad idea to leave an impression. A notion he knows Liam shares.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s silent for a long time, and the faint breeze that passes through the alcove ruffles Liam’s hair gently, the only real movement between them. Reyes knows something is coming, and he waits for it with a patient certainty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, Liam sighs. “Vidal, we’re… friends, you and me. Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes smiles. Liam wears his vulnerability much like his other emotions -- out on his sleeve. Reyes can almost admire the strength of character that takes. He’s still concerned that Liam’s bleeding heart will prove an unhappy story, but there’s admiration to be found in the security of character.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course. I’m almost required to respect a man that can beat me at rummy four times in one night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An easy out. Cowardly, Vidal, but definitely on brand. It almost feels bad to be hesitant with Liam, of all people. Only one of four who still smile when they see him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Liam recognizes his reluctance to answer, he doesn’t comment on it. Reyes gets the distinct feeling that no one knows Liam’s made the trek out to the slums, and he’ll be having words for it when he gets back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m going to share something with you,” Liam says evenly, as though he were testing the words on his tongue. “And I’m hoping that respect you mentioned will keep you from repeating it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes parts his lips, promises and assurances coming unbidden as second nature, but --</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m serious, Reyes,” Liam interrupts, eyes cold and calculating as they finally find Reyes’s. “No Charlatan shit, no bribes, no bidding. Ryder trusts you, and if you want the rest of us to follow his lead, this is a damn good place to start.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It hits just as hard as Liam means it to. The crew trusts him about as far as the Nexus does, but Reyes has a fine line to walk between commanding the Collective’s respect, and avoiding a continuation of the war Sloane eagerly bred. Official sanctimony from the Initiative is off the board, but ties to the Pathfinder have emboldened his agents. They enjoy fighting alongside him. He drinks their liquor, shoots the shit, and looks oh-so-dashing when he’s securing their crates of supplies from the remaining Outcasts. Their association to this powerful man, slowly but surely gnawing his way through the Nexus’s leash, has them smitten. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unfortunately, Reyes hasn’t done the same for Ryder’s own crew. Cora, especially, takes serious offense to his mere existence. Vetra sees enough of herself in him to know not to trust him. Drack is as unimpressed with him as he is </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>humans, and Peebee hasn’t bothered to hide her studious, warning looks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam, though, comes with the benefit of the doubt. Liam at least wants to </span>
  <em>
    <span>try, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and that’s more than what he’ll get from the rest of the Tempest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whatever you confide here, it stays with me. Only me,” he answers, and he’s almost surprised that he actually means it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam believes him, because it’s a very Liam thing to do. He nods, and takes a deep breath before releasing it as a troubled sigh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t mention I told you this, alright? But, there was an incident onboard the flagship. Ryder, Vetra and me, we were captured. A stasis field of sorts. Archon had us, up close and personal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam speaks about his own trauma like it was incomparable to what others had been through. A minor inconvenience at most, washed out by the struggles of those around him. It’s a simple way to separate the ones who banked on their bad day, and the ones who truly suffered, and it’s no surprise that Liam thinks himself unworthy, even in that regard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s… I won’t get into details, but we were left there, waiting for that bastard to get back. SAM figured it out, of course, how to get us out, but it was rough.” Another pause, and Liam looks longingly towards the open air at the end of the cavern, as though he might will a fresh breeze into existence. His voice turns vulnerable, words slipping through whatever barrier that had held them so firmly in their nondisclosure. “The field only affects living matter, you know? So, Scott… he died. SAM killed him, right in front of us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes’s blood runs cold. It’s ridiculous, because he’s seen Scott since the Paarchero incident, had watched him reject a few too many shots and force that smile until it became natural again. He’d met up with Scott out in Draullir only a week later, making arrangements and jointly developing safety precautions for a trade route between the Port and Ditaeon. He’s seen Scott’s chest rise and fall with every breath, heard the quiet sound of his words spoken so very close to him, watched his body move as he stood beside Reyes without guilt nor hesitation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But the words that come from Liam’s mouth care little for what Reyes knows. His gut churns, and his heart is swallowed by a sudden and unexpected crippling grief. His body remains still, focused and secure, but it takes a moment for his brain to catch up to reality. Liam is watching him, as though he expected the reaction, but had to verify it with his own eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“SAM resuscitated him, of course, but there was a moment that I thought…” he shakes his head minutely. “He’s fine, though. Died twice, the bastard, and came back stronger.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why are you telling me this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The words are blurted out of him with little to no fluidity. A pitiful cover-up for the strange throb in his chest. The normal taciturn prerogative he adheres to when someone is spilling secrets has all but vaporized. Liam either doesn’t take notice, or pretends not to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because he said the strangest thing to me later, when we were back on the ship. He was blowing it off, reassuring us everything was hunky-dory. Asked me if Cora had filed the report. I said she had. High priority, highly encrypted. Need-to-know only. Already on its way to the Nexus.” A pause, Liam chewing over his words, as if he still couldn’t believe them, after all this time. Torn between exasperation and fond amusement.  “He nodded his head, of course, and mentioned something about how pissed Sara would be when she woke up. We didn’t talk for a bit, after that. Just watched the stars. Then, he looks at me, thinks about it for a bit, and says real quiet, ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t tell Reyes’.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam stops speaking around the same time Reyes’s heart gets lodged in his throat. Brown eyes find his, calculating and seeking, and Reyes know that looking away will only confirm some underlying suspicion, so he holds the gaze as best as he can. Liam waits, and finally asks the question he came all this way to ask.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why didn’t he want </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>to know, Vidal?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes swallows, but it’s difficult. “That’s personal information, Kosta. I wouldn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands either.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A truth in a lie, but a poor one. It’s flimsy, even to his own ears, and Liam doesn’t buy it for a moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bullshit, and you know it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Whatever answers Liam is looking for here, Reyes is determined not to give them. Normally, he guarded his internal commentary with absolute dedication. But backed against the wall as he was, his willingness to open up may as well have been chained and barred.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what does Scott know, I wonder?” Reyes cuts back, his charm slipping quietly and efficiently out of his grasp. “The first mistake you made was telling me you were given Scott’s confidence. The second, was showing me how little that means to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam scoffs. “Coming from the guy who would probably sell his dignity to the highest bidder? Don’t lecture me on morals, Vidal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And alright, maybe Reyes deserves that, but he expected better from </span>
  <em>
    <span>Liam</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’s bothered almost as much on Ryder’s behalf as he is by the insinuations that seem intent on chasing him down every alleyway, their fingers curled around blunt truths that hit harder than Sloane’s tactless thugs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam seems to regret his words, or at least dislikes the way they stifle the air between them. “Look. Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Ryder is… well, he’s my best friend, isn’t he? I don’t want you thinking I’m just out here, spilling his business.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well then I’m hoping this declaration comes with something useful attached. Because so far I don’t know what you want to hear from me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t worry about that,” Liam says, his eyes glimmering slightly at the bait. “Your face told me enough, once I’d said he’d died.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kosta--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re good for him, you know?” Liam interrupts, a small smile pulling at his features as he addresses the cavern before them, hopefully ignorant to the uncomfortable seizing in Reyes’s lungs. “I don’t think either of you are going to acknowledge that though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” Reyes repeats, dispelling the urge to roll his eyes as best he could. “I’m sure the Initiative is incredibly pleased with the association.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, fuck no,” Liam laughs. “They’re pissed, but less so than they’d be with Sloane, so you’ve got that going for you, I guess. And Cora’s about to shove her boot down your throat if you keep dragging him off to the badlands in the middle of the night. Not to mention half the galactic market turns us away once your name gets around. Really, you’re terrible for business.” He pauses, and that breeze he’d been so hopeful for finally makes its way in, ruffling his hair. “But like I said, you’re good for </span>
  <em>
    <span>him.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes lets the silence linger, somehow comfortable after their tumultuous conversation. He knows what Liam is waiting for, but he’ll leave empty-handed. Blunt suits Liam just fine, adds to his heroics, but Reyes doesn’t have that same golden halo to add a safety net of “greater good” to every rash decision Liam’s crew seems hellbent on making. It’s not a role Reyes was born to play. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And being himself, after so many lives led, seems like his most daunting role yet.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he’ll make the effort. After all, it’s Liam.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is this where you threaten me with a shotgun on the porch?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam laughs, taking his weight off the railing and signaling that their time together was, thankfully, ending. “He’s far better with a shotgun than I am. I doubt my threats will do a goddamn thing. I just had to see it for myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See it?” Reyes questions. It’s unwise to dig further, but if he has to go deeper into this upheaval with anyone, he’s glad it’s Liam. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam is smiling serenely, shrugging his shoulders. “Bit cliché, isn’t it? Hero, antihero, et cetera. Old hat stuff, but it’s funny to watch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At this, Reyes can’t help the twist of humor that helps uncurl the discontent in his gut, the unsettling reminder of Ryder’s mortality.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Try to keep him alive a little longer, would you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liam smirks and claps him on the back, all friendly sincerity. “You know me, always up for a challenge,” he says. “Oh, and uh, drinks tonight, around sundown. Initiative’s paying,” he adds suggestively, as though Reyes may be more inclined if he knew it would involve sending a metaphorical fuck you to the lords above.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t miss it,” he agrees, lighting a cigarette as Liam grips his shoulder and wanders off, disappearing just as quickly as he had materialized, intent on throwing Reyes’s world askew within a meager 20 minute time span. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blows out smoke and tries to convince himself that he’s not looking forward to the same drinks and the same company he’s had dozens of times before.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes is halfway out of the door to his apartment when the message pops up, unnoticeable save the small blip on his wrist that he’s trained himself to zero in on. He flips open his omnitool, considering saving whatever new foul-up this is until </span>
  <em>
    <span>after </span>
  </em>
  <span>his meeting with another Angaran informant. They were his most difficult clientele, wary of the way his species handle disrespect, yet honest enough to hate him openly for it. They were practically gift-wrapping their own altercations at this point, and neither side seemed to regret ripping them open. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The subject line, however, catches his eye. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <em>
    <span>leash your pathfinder</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <span>Reyes snorts, amused well before curiosity sets in. Colt Dalton. A man who isn’t great at making friends, and even worse at making conversation. His glass is always a bit too half-empty for Reyes’s taste in banter, but their loose connection has made siphoning information from the docks manager a worthy sacrifice. And Dalton was one of the very few who knew the Charlatan’s identity. A necessary weakness if Reyes were to maintain control of the port. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sensing no immediate distress from the opener, Reyes leans against the wall and opens the rest of the message. He’s not sure when he became responsible for the more (if this message were any indication) problematic parts of Scott Ryder, but he can’t deny he likes those invisible strings. Association is powerful, and for all purposes, Ryder holds the keys to making things happen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How Scott’s newest transgression is his fault, though, he can’t imagine. </span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>C,</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Pathfinder came looking for information on an Angara, Ljeta. You remember her. Told him to leave her be. Then surprise, surprise, look whose name he’s got in his mouth. You better talk to him before his little game becomes a bad habit.</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>Attached is a file. Short, around 10 seconds. Reyes runs a quick scan, but it looks legit, pulled straight from Dalton’s body cam. It opens to the relative chaos of the port and Dalton’s own voice, cut off at the better part of a sentence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“--didn’t say anything.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The camera picks up Ryder, in all his hard-earned glory, standing close enough to hear information that’s better off not finding its way off of the docks. His eyebrows are knitted together in what could pass for concern, maybe even confusion, but Reyes has seen this expression before. The vaporization of Ryder’s patience as his nerves are tested. The utter lack of willingness to put up with bullshit in a job that has become at least seventy percent pure and utter bullshit. When Dalton stops speaking, Ryder pauses, chewing the inside of his cheek in apparent inner consultation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“All right,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Scott says eventually, uncrossing his arms and drawing himself up to full, intimidating height. His eyes have gone cold -- annoyance, laced with just the thinnest shred of humor that only people in unwinnable situations can find funny. He steps closer to Dalton, voice lowering without sacrificing the warning in its depth. In this slip of a moment, he emanates the power he refuses to let throttle him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Let’s cut the shit, Dalton. Either you help me, or The Charlatan makes your life a lot more difficult.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes startles himself by laughing aloud, true and honest in his own shock. There’s a honey-thick warmth pooling in his gut, and the heady thrum of arousal brought on by that defiant, premonitory expression. Scott’s threat of Reyes’s retribution is determined to be noticed, whether Reyes gives it permission or not. He’s used to having his moniker spread around to fuel the lesser needs of Kadaran residents, but this is new. This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>boastful. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Scott, in all his righteous glory and shiny Initiative armor, has used his unsavory connections with a shadowed ruler to bully information out of a high-visibility docks manager. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could have offered Dalton an obscene amount of credits, maybe a transfer. He has every possible (and some </span>
  <em>
    <span>impossible</span>
  </em>
  <span>) resources at his fingertips, and he chooses to flaunt their intimacy instead?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And all for the good of, what, a single Angaran? What about Ljeta could have possibly motivated such a show of force? What ‘greater good’ could warrant such an aggressive stance from an otherwise charitable human savior? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How many times has Scott Ryder had Reyes’s influence on his lips, utilizing their connection to obtain whatever the Nexus couldn’t sanction for him? Simply because he wanted to?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And to think, Reyes almost felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>guilty </span>
  </em>
  <span>for doing the same. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He types a quick and efficient response to Dalton.</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <span><br/>
</span>
    <em>
      <span>Dalton, </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>My apologies for the Pathfinder's behavior. You were, after all, only doing your job. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Concerning the future, however, I’d advise you to never put our Pathfinder in the position of having to ask twice. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Respectfully,</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>-C</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And because he can’t help himself, not with the soft smile of amusement that still lingers on his face, the only thing advertising how quickly his blood is racing through his veins, he pulls up his conversation thread with Scott. </span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;R: Pathfinder. I’m afraid you’ll need to start sending me a list of exactly whose life I’ll be needing to "make more difficult." Is it just poor Mr. Dalton?</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>The reply is nearly immediate, and he wonders whether he simply caught Ryder in a rare moment of peace, or if this is Scott’s attempt at damage control. </span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;S: It was just one guy. And in my defense, he was being unaccommodating. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>Reyes can hear the voice in his head. Casual, snarky, and without an ounce of regret, shifting the blame and clearing himself of any wrongdoing in the ironic sort of way Reyes has grown to appreciate. It’s familiar. It feels less like backhand promises and professionally beefed up garbage that most positions of power usually offer. It feels like something treasured, something he wouldn't trade, regardless of the credits to be made. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't need to write back, but he does. He shouldn't be late for this meeting, but moments with Scott are hard to come by, and he won't easily give up starting the day in a good mood, if he can help it.</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;R: Since when did my title start commanding more respect than yours?</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;S: The moment I said it did. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <em>
    <span>That </span>
  </em>
  <span>hits a little too realistically for both of them, and the conversation goes still for a moment, both of them absorbing the honesty Ryder hadn’t intended to broadcast. Reyes knows what he meant: something teasing, an inside joke inside of a powerplay inside of the world’s most obnoxious dick-measuring contest. It was meant to be...well, funny.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But they both know what he says is true. The Charlatan always had power, always had pull with the right people in the right and wrong places. He could have made it without Ryder’s help, there’s no question to it. But the moment Scott Ryder affiliated himself, Reyes’s crown sat a little straighter, came off a little more polished at the end of each day. Every interaction he shares with Scott raises his pedestal just a bit higher.</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;S: That came out wrong.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>Reyes hums in amusement as the new message follows, still uncomfortable, but pacified in the shared realization. </span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;R: I know what you meant.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>It still feels off-kilter, throwing confetti on the elephant in the room. This balancing act of the shared power between them has been executed flawlessly, and so far, neither the Pathfinder nor the Initiative have caught him doing something they'd disapprove of. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And if Scott and SAM know more than what the Nexus does, they don't seem inclined to share. </span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;S: Should I back off? I can find other ways. I've been told I'm more charming than intimidating anyway.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>That damage control finally hits, and again, Reyes is all too aware of the lines that separate them. Reyes would let this play out, observe the fallout, see what pieces begin to move in reaction to a single comment that may or may not have been overheard. Ryder though, is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fixer,</span>
  </em>
  <span> both in title and in spirit. If he's done wrong through the reaction of a reaction of a reaction, he'll make it right, even if he's not particularly sorry. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes is determined not to learn from it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The humor is a deflection, but they've both known that for awhile now. Reyes feeds into it beautifully, just as he's supposed to. It's second nature to casually flirt with Scott, to speak a bit suggestively and watch the resulting groan and eyeroll. He's seen Liam do the same, a few indecent jokes and sly nudges, but it's playful, a camaraderie, no undercurrent of </span>
  <em>
    <span>what if? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;R: Please, the only reason we met was because you needed my help. Why stop now?</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>He hesitates, but his fingers make the decision for him. They're swiping across his omnitool before he can let his higher brain functions scold him for the idea. The next message is sent almost immediately after the first.</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;R: Besides, I quite like you aggressive. You wear it well. And you make my title sound good, Pathfinder.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>The stillness that follows is almost enough to make him regret it. Maybe it’s gone too far. Friendly, pushed to the breaking point, inching across that thin line that separates charm from intention. The resonance of his name in Scott’s carefully considered threat is still playing in his head, his own personal torture on a feedback loop. His onmitool chirps, and he reads quickly, panicking for nothing. </span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;S: I’ve been dabbling. You exiles, you’re a whole different breed of bullshit, you know that?</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>Disappointment and amusement bubble up in him, a contradictory mixture that leaves him feeling more vulnerable than he likes. Rarely does he play against an opponent who wins from either sheer naivety or sheer luck, and entertaining Ryder’s strength of character does very little for his optimism. Even when he loses, Ryder can find a way to make you feel guilty for it. And when he wins… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well. Reyes isn’t one to return to the scene of a crime, but he’s ten minutes late already, and still lingering. </span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;R: I’ve love to go into detail, but I’m afraid I have lives to make difficult. Keep my name in your mouth and I’ll see what I can scrounge up for you in our remaining Outcast raids. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;S: Always a businessman, Reyes? </span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>He’s already out the door by the time the answer comes in, but he can hear Scott’s sigh within it, that edge of humor they can’t seem to shake themselves of, less </span>
  <em>
    <span>it </span>
  </em>
  <span>be discussed. His boots are heavy and too loud against the unappealing grating beneath him, but the clamor of the port goes on around him as he stops and sends off one last message to the most powerful man in the galaxy. </span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;R: Not always. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>If he privately replays the message from Dalton an obscene amount of times throughout the day, well, that’s no one’s business but his.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The great thing about having an AI that’s connected to both your body and the entirety of the Initiative is that Scott rarely gets taken by surprise. So when Cora knocks on the door (just as SAM advised she might, were she to continue on her route), he’s had more than enough time to tidy up his desk, throw his pillows back onto his bed, and pretend like he was hard at work typing out that report he’d promised her he’d start. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As most things go, anticipating the arrival of something did little to warn him of the resulting confrontation. And the look on her face wasn’t something he’d been prepared to entertain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cora, hey. What’s, uh… what’s wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She stares at him for a moment, the door hissing closed behind her, and he’s reminded uncomfortably about that </span>
  <em>
    <span>old </span>
  </em>
  <span>Milky Way movie where they drop that poor cow into the raptor cage. From the way she narrows her eyes at him expectantly, he knows he’s supposed to have figured out what he’s done wrong by now, but it’s such a large pile to sift through and pinpoint that he chooses instead to bid his time and look as forgivable as possible. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just got word from The Nexus,” she sighs, holding up a datapad. “Satellite recon has shown multiple Kodiak drop shuttles supplying Collective agents with shield generators and kinetic pylons. Not just in Kadara, but on Elaaden and Ameayii too. What the hell, Ryder?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>She tosses the tablet in his lap, and he fumbles to catch it before the corner can slam into something tender. “‘What the hell’ yourself, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cora</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he curses, flipping the tablet right-side-up to glance at the contents. “What do you want me to do, go down there and waggle my finger at them? They’re defending themselves, just like everyone else in this galaxy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cora frowns. Wrong answer, apparently. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Defending themselves? On Ameayii? That’s crap. They're staking a claim and prepared for fight for it. There’s nothing on that planet but eezo, and the Collective is probably making primo for it on the black market.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder shrugs, an offhand gesture that’s too casual for the conversation, and part of him knows it. “Sure, probably. That’s how the market works though. I can’t control commerce.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We </span>
  <em>
    <span>buy </span>
  </em>
  <span>from the black market!” she hisses, snatching the data pad back from him as though he no longer deserved it. “Did you even look at this? They’re out there, stealing up resources the Initiative needs to survive and selling them back to us like some big cosmic joke!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sounds like we’re paying them to do the hard work, really,” Ryder reasons, twirling lightly in his fancy office chair and desperately trying to mitigate the quickly approaching argument. “This could be a good way to integrate exiles back into a sense of community. Offer them a fixed pay to transport goods to and from systems, allow them use of the safest flight routes -- it could be a good thing, Lieutenant.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes go soft, for a moment. Long enough for Ryder to see how tired she is, just like the rest of them. Her usually pristine uniform is slightly crinkled at the edges, the surest sign that she’s losing her focus. “Scott… you. Look, you can’t treat everyone as though they have the best intentions.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, but you want to give every exile the benefit of the doubt, even if they’ve lied before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder stops his chair, letting his shoes scuff on the carpet of his quarters. The room gets quieter in the weight of things unsaid. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is about Reyes,” he guesses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She immediately latches onto it, and Ryder knows this is really what she came here to fight about. He knew it was coming, eventually, but he can’t say he’s not disappointed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me he didn’t get these shield generator plans from you,” she says, the small plead hidden well beneath her incredulity. “That’s all I want to know. As long as I can be sure that you’re taking this </span>
  <em>
    <span>seriously</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I’ll leave it alone and won’t bother you--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean, take it seriously?” he blurts, anger and hurt a sudden, searing pain in his gut. She reminds him too much of his father sometimes, and he can’t decide if that’s a fault with him, or her. “I’m sorry, are we going to do this every time?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She fumbles her next sentence, looking imploringly at him for more information on what he means. Whatever she can use as ammunition to argue.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott’s happy to give it. </span>
</p>
<p><span>“Let’s count the ways we’ve done some low-brow shit, Cora: we took on bonafide flight risk who has access highly classified information,” he begins, counting off on his fingers, “--an </span><em><span>active</span></em><span> mercenary Krogan, an alien with ties to an extremist group that was tasked with evaluating our worth to the galaxy, a literal </span><em><span>black market smuggler, </span></em><span>and Bain, who, honestly, who the fuck knows what’s going on with that guy,</span> <span>But </span><em><span>Reyes </span></em><span>is where you want to draw the line?”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not fair,” she bites back immediately, but there’s a vulnerability in her voice, the hint that she never wanted this argument, despite initiating it. She’s troubled. She’s afraid and stressed and looking for confrontation. “Our crew has shown their dedication to the cause, to the betterment of everyone, not just--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We have an outpost on Kadara thanks to Reyes. We have </span>
  <em>
    <span>intel, </span>
  </em>
  <span>thanks to Reyes. I was able to send out military personal to accompany transports because the Collective guard Ditaeon under </span>
  <em>
    <span>Reyes’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>orders,” he retorts, unable to keep the spitting disdain from leaking into his words. “You can’t pick and choose the good you want to accept in people, and banish others for it!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And these generators?” She snaps back. “Where did they come from?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know, Cora, maybe the technicians that the Nexus exiled in a fit of goddamn childish bullshit?” He asks, gesturing helplessly. “Those are </span>
  <em>
    <span>professionals </span>
  </em>
  <span>out there, not a bunch of raving lunatics. They’re more than capable of designing and building a fucking generator.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A mass surge of equipment like this came from somewhere, Scott!” She argues back, and he can feel the static of her biotics in the air, reacting to her emotions. Rarely does she lose that control. “Someone either authorized the equipment transfer, or gave them the blueprints to build it themselves. It’s too much for a single group to acquire spontaneously at once, not unless they had the help. Those kinetic pillars aren’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>utilized </span>
  </em>
  <span>at any outpost other than Eos--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“--I did it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The room falls still once again. Even the endless emptiness of space seems crushing as Cora watches him, eyes big and sad and far too shocked. Even though she knew. She’s always known.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“That’s what you wanted to hear, right?” Ryder concedes. “You came over here to confront me about it, so, well… I did it. I gave The Charlatan the blueprints, granted he use them to protect our outpost. The Nexus didn’t have the materials to spare, but… he did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“His </span>
  <em>
    <span>materials,</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>”</em> Cora snarls, voice full of heated coals that threaten to alight at the smallest inclination, “--are Nexus property. He has no rights to any of it. He’s bartering your own equipment back to you--!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, he is!” Scott snaps, cold eyes finding hers, feeling his own rage trashing against the cage he works hard to keep locked. “And if he didn’t have the parts, someone else </span>
  <em>
    <span>would, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and they’d be far less likely to barter to the asshole who just got through wiping his flophouse off the goddamn map! Would you be willing to sell to the guy who just burned another exile alive with incendiary rounds, Lieutenant? Or do you think their newly adjusted ‘moral compass’ would steer them in a different fucking direction?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She glares back at him, lip quivering in some fucked up combination of frustration and trauma, but says nothing. Scott sighs, ready to be defeated and end this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Report me if you want. I’ll get a slap on the wrist and a nice hour long meeting with Tann about the dangers of association. It’ll be a waste of everyone’s goddamn time and we’ll lose the ties that we need, but I know you </span>
  <em>
    <span>love </span>
  </em>
  <span>protocol.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The jab seems to jolt her back into a fighting stance. She’s standing up straighter and staring at him as though she can’t quite figure out where he’s gone, but she intends to drag him back, kicking and screaming. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s not what you think. He’s a liar and a murderer--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“--So am I, Cora--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“--He’ll take what he wants from you and be done with you. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>using </span>
  </em>
  <span>you--”</span>
</p>
<p><span>“</span><em><span>Everyone’s fucking using me!</span></em><span>”</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>He doesn’t remember getting to his feet, but there he is, standing level with his second-in-command and momentarily wondering where the disconnect started. But the blood is pulsing too heavily in his veins, the demand unable to keep up with the supply, and he’s more hurt than he thinks the situation calls for. There’s a deep, throbbing pain his chest and he so desperately wants to be left </span><em><span>alone.</span></em> <span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>“Everyone,” he says again, but it’s quieter, contemplative and emotional in ways he never wanted to explore. His cards are face up on the table, and he doesn’t dare look at his opponent. “They get what they want and they move on. They don’t want me, Cora, they want the Pathfinder, and all those nice little things that come with the title. That’s life now. At least Reyes is up front about it.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Her posture remains rigid and fixed, primed for a fight should their argument swell and crest, but her face is blank, absorbing his emotional fumbling and deciding what to create with it. He tries not to look at her, and SAM, for once, is uncommonly silent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A lot to learn here, he supposes. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Guilt grips him suddenly at the thought of what he’s teaching, of how’s he’s treating a person who struggles right alongside him in every moment of every day, putting </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>needs over her own. Is this the team leader she deserves? Is this what she gets for putting herself on the firing line? They are all so far past the breaking point, the search for Meridian grabbing the base of their spines and yanking until they’ve been fishhooked through every possible emotional disunion. He opens his mouth to apologize, the air tasting sour in his lungs, but--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott looks towards her, to the tablet clutched in her hands like the lifeline it is. Cora, always so focused on data, on what she can learn and pass on to superiors. So desperate to be an asset to those she admires that she disregards her own talents. The words that fall from her mouth are genuine though, like most things she says. Filled with intent and the visceral honesty that most of them need to hear, whether they seek it out or not. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Scott, I didn’t mean… I’m just worried.” She finally notices the wrinkles in her cuff, and ignores them. “Reyes might be better than Sloane for Kadara, but he’s still an…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“An outlaw?” Ryder fills in for her. “An exile? An unknown?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“An </span>
  <em>
    <span>ally,</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>”</em> she interrupts, and Ryder falls silent. “He’s all of those things, but he can’t play for both sides forever, Ryder. Either he’ll have to go straight, or we’ll have to cut ties. I don’t want to see what that does to you. I know he’s… important.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She hesitates on the identifier, just as Ryder does. There are so many words for what Reyes is to the world, but what he is to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Scott </span>
  </em>
  <span>is something undefinable. ‘Friend’ is too casual. ‘Colleague,’ too imprecise. He’s an unknown, unpredictable variable in a life that demands absolute control and functionality. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I understand why you did it,” she clarifies, looking far more lost than her feigned confidence would allow him to believe. “And I see the benefits, I do. I just… you should have a clear head when you make these decisions, and Reyes is steering you in his corner, time and time again. There has to be other options.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t make everyone happy. None of us can.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” she agrees lightly. “But name me one time you’ve turned Reyes down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott doesn’t. He grips his arm and avoids her gaze, annoyance flaring back to life at being cornered. He knows his own faults. He doesn’t need them served up to him as some sort of comeuppance for choosing the lesser of two evils. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Whether she can sense his rising irritation, or if she’s just sapped of energy herself, she’s decent enough to avoid pushing further. She makes a small show of deleting the data and wiping it from the local servers, letting his small crime remain with SAM to be guarded and secluded from spiteful eyes. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Just so you know, none of us feel that way about you,” she concludes softly, her reassurance filling every empty corner of his room. “What you said about people wanting the Pathfinder. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>that’s important to us. To me. You could have that title stripped from you this very moment, and I would still follow you straight into Hell.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It hurts. </span>
  <em>
    <span>God </span>
  </em>
  <span>does it hurt. He closes his eyes against the sudden unexpected onslaught, trying to will away the pang in his chest before he’s wearing it on his face. The relief is crippling, swallowed up quickly by guilt and laying the foundation for his resurfacing adoration of the woman in front of him. They fight the most, out of everyone. But the loyalty hasn’t been in question for a long time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” he says simply. “I’m sorry, Cora.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She reaches for the door to let herself out, but pauses. She lingers for a very long time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have to know,” she starts, still soft, but with a sense of urgency. Like if she didn’t get it out, she’d lose her nerve. “You have us. You have informats and friends all over this galaxy. You have Sara. I know your time with Reyes is some kind of… release, away from the rest of us... but why is it so important to you that you stay in his good graces? What does he give you that you can’t find here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott doesn’t answer. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>answer. Even if he wanted to defend himself, he can’t think of a single goddamn thing to say that doesn’t sound like a gamble; or worse, a hope. He doesn’t know what would happen if Reyes stops sending him annoyed commentary on his Kadara recon, or if he stops letting Scott crash at his room to avoid the headache that’s become a perpetual part of his job description. He doesn’t know what would change if he stops counting down the weeks until they dock at the port for supplies. He doesn’t know how bad it would even be if couldn’t drink himself to the brink out in the canyons, laughing at the stars while Reyes smirks and drains the last of the bottle for himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All he knows is that he doesn’t want to find out. He doesn’t want to experience this shitshow of a life without Reyes Vidal calling him out and challenging everything he knows.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He faces Cora, but no words come to his lips. She watches him, and her eyes sparkle in some keen intellect that he could never hope to replicate. Whatever confession she sees dance across his face, she gains an understanding from it, and her eyes widen.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” she says, surprise blanketing out her usual professional demeanor with very little grace. And again, gentler this time, weighing the ever increasing list of pros and (mainly) cons that this revelation reveals. “Oh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott figures what she deduces, but he doesn’t have the energy to tell her it’s not true. It feels like too much of a lie, anyway, and he can’t stomach very many more of those. Instead, he runs a hand through his hair and turns away, eying his desk and neverending paperwork with a little more acceptance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll, um, get this stuff done within an hour, okay? I’ll have SAM send it to you.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Right,” she mutters, her eyes still wide as she takes him in again, observing him now with the lens of this new information. She shakes herself quickly, finally fixing her cuff and diminishing the wrinkles. “Yeah, right, of course. A general outline is fine, and I’ll add the details in there for you, if you want, with SAM’s logs. We still have a few hours before we reach Aya, and I’ve got the time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure,” he answers, trying his best to mimic the peace she’s attempting to give him. “Thanks, Cora. I, uh… I appreciate it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The quiet “no problem” she answers him with is nearly lost at the sound of the door opening and hissing shut again. Once he’s sure she’s gone, that the quiet around him is stifling enough to suffocate him, he puts his head into his hands and stays motionless for a very long time. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes sighs irritably and adjusts his footing, trying in vain to avoid the numbing sting of improper blood flow. He’s been perched in the shadowy hills of Lechaoi for nearly two hours, eyes on the hidden yet bustling smugglers ring in the valley below him, and he was starting to feel the ache in his overworked muscles. No amount of training and experience could keep his eyes from straining in discomfort as he sat, unmoving, watching the outlaws curse at one another and unload their goods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His omnitool chirps quietly at him, and he squints against the sun to register the caller. With an amused scoff, he accepts the call. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Scott Ryder,” he declares, mouth full of feigned surprise. “I didn’t know you were gracing the port with your presence.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a small pause before Ryder answers, but his voice holds the same underlying mischief that never fails to bring a flash of identity to a walking emblem of intention. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“So quick with assumptions, Vidal. I’m on Havarl still. I’m using the Nomad’s satellite, so connection might be delayed.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That explained the pause then. Reyes shifts slightly and peers through the scope of his rifle, trying to pick out the leader amongst the rabble. He’s been tracking this group for the better part of two weeks, and he’s not fully convinced there wasn’t a fox guarding this particularly uncouth henhouse, making him easy pickings with little to no crew vengeance. He wouldn’t have let anything less than a Port-wide panic distract him from this, and yet somehow, Ryder’s attention has careened far past that proverbial tier. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Trouble?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott sighs, as though he can’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>begin </span>
  </em>
  <span>to explain. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Well, Nomad’s broke as shit and Peebee and Vetra are about to kill each other, but other than that, I’d say everything is--”</span>
  </em>
  <span> A loud hiss, followed by the resounding thud of something heavy falling from up high. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“...Well, fuck. Hey, Vetra,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he laughs uncomfortably, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Did you see what just fell off--”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Distant, furious shouting follows Ryder’s aborted question, and Reyes smiles, easily recognizing one of Vetra’s rare bouts of anger. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Walking away?” Reyes asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yup. Hundred yards at least. Up a goddamn tree, maybe.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ryder mumbles in a hurry, and if Reyes tries hard enough, he can hear the thud of Ryder’s boots on the dense Havarl vegetation as the galaxy’s most powerful man soberly retreats from the wrath of aggravated women. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Ignition coil cracked, and our replacement is four hours south, back at the Tempest. Just hoping we don’t stab each other before it gets here.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A balding man in a weathered jacket down in the valley below Reyes kicks at one of the crates, which snarls in response. Interesting. The fauna here isn’t difficult to kill, and their meat is glorified intestinal destruction at best, so what’s the purpose of trapping and transporting them?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would you ever consider a rylkor as a pet?” He asks conversationally, watching as the middle-aged man shouts something to an underling and points to the other cages on the truck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Why, did you get me one?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, there seems to be a market. I’ve got eyes on some kind of trade establishment, possibly domestication. Just wondering if I should pick you up one. You can train it to spit at Tann whenever he walks by.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder snorts indulgently. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Like Tann would ever be caught dead mingling. You scouting right now? Need some help? I can be there in day or so.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sounds dangerously close to hopeful, and Reyes feels the tinges of regret that he can’t pack it all up and wait for the company. “Too late, Pathfinder. Besides, I recognize this man. He’s been interrupting my shipments with some self-imposed tariff, and I’ve been eager to discuss business with him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows the click of the safety is loud enough to carry across the comm. Ryder stays inappropriately silent, waiting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The shot hits heavy, both in the kickback against his shoulder, and in the stifling silence of Kadara’s badlands. The man so recently centered in Reyes’s scope is hurtled backwards, his body crumpling in a mess of awkward limbs and twitching extremities, throwing up dust as he skids across the ground, and there is a brief moment of quiet horror before the camp below him erupts into panic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he expects, loyalty wasn’t a precursor for acceptance into whatever up-and-coming faction this undisciplined mess of bodies is pretending to be, and they scatter. Trucks and shuttles are suddenly crammed full with shouting individuals, small wrestling matches breaking out between the slower ones for who gets a spot in the cab, and who had to duck into the bed. Not a single one of them spare a glance to the cliffs, revenge saved only for those who give a shit which barking idiot gives them orders. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You know,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ryder begins, his voice somehow hushed in respect of the unabashed violence. It stirs a heady, reoccuring interest that tries to forcibly push its way past Reyes’s levelheaded reactions. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“You really shouldn’t be doing that in front of me.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes smiles indulgently, watching the remaining men and women flee, abandoning their ill-gotten cargo and equally ill-gotten leadership. He stretches out his legs, finally, and savors the feeling, allowing it to couple enticingly with the poorly hidden tease in Ryder’s voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You going to report me to the supreme law of the land?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder hums in amusement, voice still a shade too dark for a man dedicated to upholding Initiative rule. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I doubt either of those ruling men will be surprised, concerning your blatant lack of respect for moral law.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Morals are changeable,” he answers easily, folding in the stock of his rifle. “You’ve never heard the stories of people who got tired of their dogs biting them, so they bit them back? Cuts the habit real quick. It’s a very accepted practice where I’m from.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Dominance argument aside, I’m fairly certain I should never let you have a dog.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes resolutely ignores the twinge of </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>in his gut that accompanies Ryder’s insinuation of domesticity, as slight as it may be. There’s a vague promise of some undefinable (yet almost believable) future, something neither of can guarantee, and there’s another nail being hammered into the slowly descending coffin of ‘keeping things easy’.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t be ridiculous; dogs love me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Wait, I had something important I wanted to ask you. You led a few gangs, back on Omega, right?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes moves back into the shade of an overhanging rock, pulling out a ration of water. “I did. What’s so important?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Have you ever said “Blast ‘em!” to someone?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes chokes on his drink, trying to hide his cough in the curve of his elbow as Ryder laughs at him over the comm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes twenty more minutes of stupid questions, laughter, and Ryder’s reluctant goodbye at the behest of a slightly pacified Vetra, before Reyes realizes Ryder called him for no goddamn reason at all. He sends a team out to scavenge the supplies before flying back to the Port, his mind remaining blissfully quiet as he avoids the questions that will only grant him more unknowns.</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s mostly accidental when he stumbles across Vetra, but considering how often their lines of work intersect, he knew he was lucky to have avoided her as long as he did. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s at a makeshift bar out in the badlands, two dozen miles away from any newfound decency the outpost has managed to dig up, like spouts, long hidden under ash and thirsty for promise. It’s not a pretty place, but neither the weasley human behind the corrugated steel pretending to be a bar table, nor the two Asari with the blue under their eyes several shades too dark, have any official loyalties to one party or another. With the Pathfinder’s fingerprints across Kadara, neutrality has once more become a reasonable and safe option.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her drink sits full and untouched on the metal before her, as warm as it was when it was served. She’s skimming a data pad with subdued interest, and Reyes is well enough versed in this scene to recognize a front when he sees one. He’s not here to see her, and she’s not here to see him (or to nurse that drink which will remain untouched until she leaves, and the bartender snags it for himself). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, he sits anyway. He’s been many things, but being impolite to a colleague isn’t a facet that garners much respect. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nyx,” he taps the steel with a finger as he says her name, and the human eyes him with an ungodly amount of disgust before pulling out a bottle and pouring him two fingers of something too brown to be amber. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Vidal,” she responds, a hint of amusement in her voice as the bartender loudly departs to a back room, grumbling about wasted supplies. “Here,” she puts down her datapad and switches their drinks with careful, nimble fingers. “That drink will have you on your back in thirty seconds. Have mine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He allows the transfer. “I have quite the tolerant liver, you know. I’m very nearly offended.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She snorts. “It’s poisoned. Goss isn’t fond of humans.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He glances at the offending glass, innocuous save for the dirty coloring and smudged glass. “Never met a xenophobe that hates their own kind.” He picks up Vetra’s abandoned drink and studies it carefully. “Dextro?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Seems early leadership has left some marks. Wounds can’t get old if you don’t move on. And no, it’s gimgin, you’ll be fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She returns to her datapad and Reyes chances a drink, if only to look casually occupied. It’s sweet, not unlike most finely aged Turian wine, but with a bite on the aftertaste. Trust Vetra to keep up appearances, even if only for a cover. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is this a metaphor? Hang around one place long enough and you’ll learn which bottles are poisoned? Should I be learning a lesson?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She smiles, and it’s easier to tell with her. Most Turians, you have to look for it, and you’re always second guessing the read of their emotions. Vetra’s smile frames her face, eases the burden in her eyes, and she doesn’t hide its presence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Save it for the shadows, my liege. I’m sure they love listening to your inspiring drabble.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s no different on her own than with Scott by her side, though Reyes knows well enough that security like hers can mean only one of two things: either she believes herself untouchable, or something far more important than her own life has already been safeguarded. Considering the wild fluctuation of her communications during a memorable two month period, where her correspondences had a few too many exclamation marks and the sob stories were filtered in through the priority inbox, Reyes is guessing the latter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Comfortable moments pass, as Reyes flicks communications down to particular delegations, sipping idly at a dark purple drink that’s starting to grow on him. Finally, Vetra drops the pad in front of her, rubbing at the higher edges of her mandibles in apparent tension. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Surely you didn’t come all the way out here to meet me, Vidal. Who’s your catch?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes fakes mulling it over. “And if I did?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I’d say you found me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smirks, laughter caught in the back of his throat, because she reminds him of Scott, and they’ve clearly been spending too much time together if the pang of missing him is still reverberating from her proximity. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tries not to pause at the thought. There are far too many branches of consideration at that revelation for him to poison himself with. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Merely a stopover,” he explains, honesty coming natural in the presence of someone who has Scott’s association all over her. “Dead drop about two kliks east of here, actually. Rumor was some foolhardy idiot was carrying around two terabytes worth of the departing galaxy’s best hanar music.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vetra’s fingers twitch on her glass, and amusement floods her tone. “You’re not serious.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As a response, he holds out a simple, scuffed flash drive between two fingers. “I would never joke about art,” he chastises. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That will fetch you a </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>nice price,” she considers with a small laugh. “Looking to buy something pretty?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah,” he replies, pocketing the drive. “I’m a generous man. I’ll release most to the public, keep a select few for buyers with taste, once word gets out that not everything is available to the masses. The rich love their exclusivity.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She inclines her head in agreement, but says nothing. A comfortable silence stretches between them, and Reyes waits, nursing his drink until his palette becomes accustomed to it. He’s not one to put his day on hold, but he’s been due for a minute of peace. And he genuinely likes Vetra, all things considered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know we’re not stupid, right?” She finally asks, the soft voice from an otherwise hardened existence making an unexpected appearance. “Of all the marks, Vidal. You really are an idiot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lowers his eyes to his drink, appropriately chastised in that superior way only family could manage, and he knows all too well that Vetra is fluent in the speech of people like him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not my intention,” he mumbles, and it comes out so easily that Vetra looks like she might even believe him. He’s been wanting to say it out loud for a long time, but walls are poor company and Vetra is the type to take admissions to the grave. “I mean, having him on my side initially was great, of course. But now… I lost two shipment manifests the other day because I was too hung up on reading the report from Eladdan, wondering if that Architect had tore him apart.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The words bubble out of him, and his chest aches in a sudden, overwhelming urge to be understood. To talk through the absurdity of it all. Scott spends half his time making jokes about being woefully unprepared for what he stumbles though, never quite realizing that Reyes is tripping right alongside him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He called me a few weeks ago, you know,” he laughs lightly, slightly chaotic. “Wanted to ask me if I’d ever said </span>
  <em>
    <span>Blast ‘em! </span>
  </em>
  <span>to someone. That was the reason for the entire call. I told him I hadn’t, and he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>disappointed. It was the dumbest conversation I’ve ever had.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And?” Vetra prompts, when he doesn’t follow through. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I want to have a thousand more,” he admits, the honesty he’s kept sealed up suddenly whispered across the bar, a crime far more serious than those he commits on the daily.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Contemplative quiet sits between them, but he can feel Vetra’s thoughts, her considerations, well before she gives them a voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He sings. Did you know that?” She says finally, a glint of humor in her voice that almost overshadows her fond and absolute dedication. “It’s not fantastic, and no one’s going to be auctioning off two terabytes worth of it, but it’s nice, out in space, when everything is quiet. He sits on that little overhang where he can see the stars, all those damn notebooks spread out around him like a barricade.” She stops to huff a small laugh, and Reyes is momentarily overwhelmed with the picture she creates. He can’t even summon the bitter taste of jealousy, not with the way she speaks about him, painfully human in all the worst and best ways. “We can always tell when your messages come through, though. He stops everything else, and the ship goes quiet enough that you can almost hear his smile, and he starts right back up singing again. Eventually Liam will come out and lay next to him, filing his reports, and they’ll start bullshitting and the moment will pass, but… You can always tell when he’s thinking of you. He only ever answers you when he’s like that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The glass is warm in Reyes hand, but he can’t find the urge to release his grip. He doesn’t know what to do with this information other than hold is close and devour it before he loses the details. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why haven’t you made your move?” She asks, genuinely curious, willing to corner him while he’s been shaken and unearthed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It has to be him,” he answers honestly, his reasoning finally clear both aloud and within his own turmoil. “I’m afraid he’ll think…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t finish that line of thought, but they both know what he means. A reputation is a two-sided beast. A fine layer of protection, overpowered only by the fine layer of skepticism. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You make him happy,” she states suddenly, as though it might be a bland declaration, some common knowledge that she merely means to catch him up on. “And you haven’t fucked him over so far. Whoever else you are, or what you do, doesn’t matter much to me in that regard. I can’t say the same for the rest of the crew though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t care what the rest of the crew thinks,” he says, trying for blasé and landing somewhere around ‘bitter.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She scoffs. “Of course you do. You’re an idiot, but you’re not stupid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He says nothing in response to that, which is an admittance of chastisement in and of itself. Luckily, he’s saved from further conversation as the far door opens, heavy wood scraping against the concrete floor of the bar. A gruff looking man walks in, flanked by a steel-gazed turian who scans the room quickly and efficiently before landing on Vetra. He smirks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit, I didn’t know there’d be two,” Vetra mutters. “Hey Vidal, help a girl out? I’ll put in a good word for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes only smiles, unbuttoning the clasp on his holster. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has some emotional aggression to work out anyway. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hiding amongst his ranks is a necessary boredom. The less field work he does, the more jealous unrest cycles through The Collective, giving way to rising suspicions. The dull work is worth the sacrifice though, unsurprisingly. His agents act differently around another grunt, cluing him in to avoidable dissent, cogs in the gears, or general rumors that aren’t mission-essential enough to reach The Charlatan’s ears. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mostly, though, it’s just low-key harassment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey Vidal, maybe if you ask nicely, she’ll fuck you a little gentler next time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Daniels, up on the ledge in the far West, watches as Vidal takes inventory of his newly acquired goods at the edge of the wind farm. His mocking sounds only slightly tinny through the earpiece, but it’s a well deserved jest. Reyes had paid Thrasia a steep price, but the Charlatan needs her (frankly alarming) supply of titanium, and she knew its value. He had no issues rolling over and accepting her deal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve got my orders. I wasn’t asked to bargain, I was told to obtain.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’m sure the Charlatan loves that go-get-em attitude,” Daniels scoffs back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vesima titters under her breath, keeping watch down the other end of the canyon as she stands next to Reyes. “Who cares? I’d half-ass my job too if I had the Pathfinder in my pocket.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes ignores them, marking down his inventory and beginning to load crates into the back of a beat up shuttle. Daniels and Vesima start a heated but friendly argument about Nexus connections, voices sharp, but their eyes sharper, capable of distraction while still maintaining their work ethic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His omnitool tings gently with an encrypted message, and he turns away from his partner briefly to gauge its urgency. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s from Crux. Unexpected, and like most surprises, a challenge he hadn’t intended to embrace today.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>C-</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>The Pathfinder has arrived in Draullir, and is taking census. I know we’re to afford him every courtesy, but I get the feeling that he’s here for his own amusement rather than official business. Please advise on how to diplomatically proceed. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>-Crux</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Reyes resists the temptation to roll his eyes. The clamor that followed the Tempest’s most recent docking was too loud to ignore, but as Ryder hadn’t informed him of the arrival, Reyes concluded that professionalism had won out. Whatever the Pathfinder was here for, it didn’t concern him, nor his alias. Though, he could admit both egos were slightly damaged. </p>
<p>
  <span>But apparently, whatever business Ryder needed to attend to was a past concern, and rifling through Reyes’s inner network was proving an immediate and enjoyable distraction. They’ve never discussed The Collective’s base of operations before, but Ryder has hinted several times about how many unexpected things he stumbles upon in those limitless cave networks. He must be </span>
  <em>
    <span>incredibly </span>
  </em>
  <span>pleased with himself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Crux-</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Entertain his questions, and his curiosities. We are but a distracting blip on his radar, and he’ll move on once he finds very little to complain about. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>-C</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dutiful Crux. He adores her, really, and of all his representatives, she shows the most promise for a long-term career in his employ. She knows the Initiative’s golden boy is aware of her Charlatan’s true identity, but not once does she consider using the opportunity to do some inside sleuthing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The world goes on around him as he types, cargo only half loaded into the shuttle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You guys want to get a drink after this?” Vesima asks lightly. “I’ve got no more business until tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m on watch for the next eight hours. Dibbs thinks Outcasts might hit the farm, some last ditch effort to fuck everyone over. Wanna bring me some rations?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, because it’s my fault you didn’t prep?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sends his response and swipes it away, bringing up his more frequented message history with Ryder himself. </span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;R: Can I help you, Scott?</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>He loads another crate, but it’s only a few moments before Scott’s answer comes in. Reyes doesn’t remember when he started referring to him primarily as Scott rather than Ryder, and he adds it to the ever growing list of things he doesn’t feel like questioning.</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;S: You’re quick, you know that? And before you thank me for the compliment, I should remind you that it’s usually an insult. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;R: My Collective is committed to updating me on significant arrivals to my base. I wish I could say the same for my colleagues. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>He can picture Ryder, smiling to himself as leans up against some guardrail of Reyes’s painstakingly crafted hideout, extraordinarily satisfied with his discovery. The bastard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“--fly my ass up to you, I’ll give away your position.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Sima, listen. Just get the drone, strap some food to it--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“--Goddess, I’m not listening to this--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder, as usual, ignores Reyes’s bait and steers the conversation with all the delicacy of a sledgehammer.</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;S: Liam called your little hidey hole a super villain lair. I just want you to know that.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;R: I’m buying Liam a drink for ‘super villain lair,’ and putting them on YOUR tab for ‘hidey hole.’ </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;S: Fuck off, it’s funny. How many favors did you have to call in to get this place built, anyway?</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>“Hey, Vidal, you gonna pack that shit up, or do you want me to walk down there and help you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes smiles at the jab, refusing to look up. “Would you believe me if I told you it was important?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;R: A few. None I wasn’t happy to pay back.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>“No?”</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;S: Gross. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>“Aw, look at him smile,” Vesima coos. “Must be The Pathfinder.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes smirks at both Scott’s prying and Vesima’s mocking, but refuses to rise to the call of questioning Ryder’s intentions. He has nothing to hide, and if Ryder wants to make a show of rifling his hands through Collective secrets, Reyes is more than happy to let him. He can’t ignore that twinge of annoyance that Ryder does, indeed, have the fucking audacity, but it’s placated by those little messages that ping his omnitool. Scott wanted him to know that he was there. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants </span>
  </em>
  <span>to get under Reyes’s skin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Annoyingly, it works, and there’s a fluttering in his chest that accompanies it.</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;R: What led you to my humble base, Pathfinder?</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>Always a way to get information, even when he’s exposing his own weaknesses. It’s a fair trade, all things considered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I knew the Charlatan paid extra for people who can get their hands on Initiative ‘goods’. Is that how you pay for your little room in the slums, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shena?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a possibility,” Reyes answers vaguely, uncommitted to a conversation that would likely keep happening without his input. He’s all too aware of what Daniels is implying. “The Pathfinder is an incredible asset to the Collective.”</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;S: Had some trouble with the Salarian Ark. Got to work with a retired STG though, so that was fun.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;R: Tell me more.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>“Okay, sure yeah, but--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is he good in the sack?” Vesima interrupts, bright eyes playful and inquisitive when Reyes looks up to meet them. “Have you humans reached peak vitality at, what, twenty-something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on ‘Sima, you too?” Daniels laments over the line. “I’m sick of people having the hots for this kid. At least Vidal fucks for the paycheck.”</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;S: Sorry, I’m off duty right now. Are these diode matrices, Reyes? Control boards? The Charlatan has some quality stuff.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>“We’re not sleeping together,” Reyes corrects, offhand. He loads the final crate into the shuttle and closes the hatch with a hiss. “You two need to find more accurate water cooler talk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s a water cooler?” </span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;R: Keep your unsoiled hands away from my goods, Scott. Don’t make me kick you out.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>“You’re not into dudes, Vidal?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes sighs, looking up towards Daniels’ general direction. “When did my sexual preferences become the highlight of this conversation?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What would you know about this conversation?” Vesima teases, long blue fingers careful on her rifle. “You were only here for half of it. What does Ryder want, anyway?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To tell me he loves me,” Reyes answers back coolly. “That he can’t wait to see me tonight, that he has so many things he wants to--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh my god,” Daniels interrupts. “Please, let me turn off my earpiece first--”</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;S: I’m taking these diodes. I don’t know what they do, but SAM says we could use them. Crux asked about you. About YOU you. She even used your first name, which was very polite.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;R: Funny, I’m dealing with the same. And you owe me for whatever you’re stealing.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>“He’s just checking in,” Reyes finally answers, interrupting Vesima and Daniels bickering about the lines between prude and creep. “Wants to meet up for a drink, the usual.”</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;S: I asked her if you still seemed sore.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>Reyes grins. The absolute </span>
  <em>
    <span>bastard. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He really does hate him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a bad influence on that kid, Vidal. Can’t imagine Tann’s happy that he’s fucking a smuggler.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes barely hears him.</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;R: You really are a piece of shit, Ryder. Meet me for drinks.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>&gt;S: Tempest this time. 2 hours.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>Reyes’s mind is too occupied to fly back, so he lets an overly eager Vesima take the controls. She’s a decent navigator, but she lets herself get sucked in too easily, focusing on her destination far more than her surroundings. She’s much better suited for escort work, a gun for hire that would never be put in the position of making rash decisions. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Training her tongue also seems to be an issue outside of her control. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, are you two really not sleeping together? You and the human Pathfinder, I mean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes considers before answering. The joke has become more prevalent the more time they spend together. Ryder’s desperation for seclusion and escape leads to rumors of what exactly they need closed doors to hide. Sure, Reyes joins his crew for public rounds of cards and drinks and a few off-color discretions, but that only seems to incite the idea of a scandal, rather than dispel it. How ingrained is Reyes, exactly? Theories fly around like middle-school cafeteria gossip, and even Reyes can’t keep atop of all the changing fluctuations. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One thing the port agrees on though: Reyes is in the Charlatan’s good books, for now. Roping a Pathfinder was a big score, and as long as Reyes doesn’t fuck it up, they’ve got a major playing card on the table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vesima’s doubt, once she’s lost her backup, raises further questions. Is it truly believable, or simply an easy target for conversation? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Ryder. Ryder does nothing to quell the growing fires of speculation. If anything, he encourages the whispered observations and lewd jokes with his own variety of gasoline. The implications are casual to him, but powerful behind the scenes, yanking strings Ryder has no knowledgeable ties to.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And if I said I was?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s curious towards her answer. He’s already told her no, once, but that was far too public to have any leverage to it. The Pathfinder’s personal business is a hot topic, and she’s willing to open the lines of communication to feed her own curiosity. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d congratulate you. He’s cute, for a human.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes hums, amused. Kadara’s cliffs fly past him in a blur of vibrant colors, pure blue water to match the clean air. “I didn’t think </span>
  <em>
    <span>cute </span>
  </em>
  <span>did it for you, ‘Sima.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shrugs, non-committally</span>
  <span>. “He’s not bad with that Piranha, either. Good arms on him. Just saying, it wouldn’t be your worst score.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Tempest in the distance catches his eye, gleaming like a tasteful and promising beacon, besmirching the land of sinners. To be invited in so casually was sacrilege of the highest order. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...I suppose not.”</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Walking up the slope of the Tempest’s runway always feels a bit ceremonial, no matter how acquainted Reyes gets. He tries to match the calm, confident stride of Ryder beside him, but he’s perpetually ready to slam into whatever new barricade deems him unworthy of such an auspiciously metaphorical climb. Sometimes, it’s the Tempest security systems, and he’s not fully convinced SAM doesn’t prementively subdue their alerts for fun. Sometimes, it’s his own poignant awareness that’s he’s putting himself on display for a port that only thrives under his quiet existence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time, it’s Cora. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Vidal,” she greets as she moves down the runway, flicking her eyes down his unapologetic form before finding his gaze. “Official business?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes waits. He’s been here all of three times before; once, to get a ride back from the Outpost while the Nomad was in repair, and a second and third time to hand deliver cargo he didn’t trust in the clutches of the port. Now though, he isn’t sure what his purpose is other than accepting an invitation that was as suspicious as it is enticing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s officially </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>business, if that’s what you’re asking,” Ryder responds, the corner of his mouth ticking up at his own poorly timed joke. Cora’s gaze slides to him, unimpressed, and there’s a terse moment where she looks infinitely ready to accept an apology that clearly isn’t coming. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,” she relents sharply. “I’m meeting with the local Head of Requisitions in your stead, Ryder. If you want to make it back to the Nexus in time, we’ll need to leave shortly after. 1700, local time?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re the boss,” Ryder responds casually, upping the challenge, and Reyes is uncomfortably aware that he’s intruding on a long standing stalemate, one that is as fluctuating as it is unsettled. There’s a battle taking place before him, three distinct parties standing on the tilted steel of the runway, two with daggers in their eyes and one with them hidden in his sleeves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cora, the most professional of them, takes the higher road and nods as she turns to depart. Ryder watches her go, the simmering fire in his eyes going gentle the moment she turns his back to him. His fingers twitch at his side, as though he might call her back, but Reyes doesn’t have the time nor the inclination to watch this man continue to bend to the ones most likely to break him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Trouble with the crew?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It works, and Ryder’s tension breaks with an bittersweet huff. “Not exactly,” he mumbles, turning to begin the final climb to the Tempest. “Come on, I’ll explain inside.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Pathfinder’s ship is a calming collection of blues and curves. It’s professional, but Reyes doubts it would pass inspection. Coffee and half-empty mugs of tea dot the conference table, and jackets cover several sections of the guardrail, as though team members had spent long enough working that comfort became a necessity. Yelling from the engine room is faint, but poignant, and Drack’s rumbling laugh echoes up through the open expanse at whatever misfortune ails the excentric Tempest engineer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes follows Ryder down the lift and through the cargo bay, taking an appreciative look at the gleaming Nomad where she sits, ready and waiting. The cursing becomes louder, accompanied by several worrying grinds of machinery that don’t seem to want to coexist, and Ryder cocks his head towards Drack, who is listening in from his perch near Engineering. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s been at that for a bit,” Ryder comments uneasily. “Anything I should know about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Drack laughs, deep and grizzly. “That’s the problem with illegal components,” he finally responds, his toothy grin evident. “They don’t come with a promise of functionality, and never quite work right with the standard issue parts.” He turns his steel-cutting gaze onto Reyes and considers him, amusement lingering with searing questions. “What’s that saying you waterbags have? ‘Speak of the devil, and he will appear’?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Learning idioms just to interrogate me?” Reyes quips. “I’m honored, Drack.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Trust me kid, if I wanted to interrogate you, I wouldn’t be using words.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, alright,” Ryder sighs. “If you two want to snarl at each other, do it on your own time.” He moves past the conversation and towards the far stairway. Reyes follows, nodding his head at Drack as he passes, and Drack returns it with no hesitation. The old Krogan has seen men like Reyes before, no doubt. He’s watched them rise to their illustrious heights, and fall to catastrophic lows. Reyes’s intentions mean little to him in the grand scheme, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ryder </span>
  </em>
  <span>has earned a spot in the Krogan’s consideration, and for that, Drack makes just enough of an exception for Reyes to recognize the compliance he’s been given. There will never be trust for a man like him, but there can be acceptance, if earned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before they could make it much further, Ryder gets stopped again by a studious voice that calls out to him from the open door of the medbay. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Scott! One moment, I wanted to speak to you about--” The Asari stops cold upon catching sight of Reyes, standing side by side with her commander as though he belongs. “Oh, apologies. I didn’t know you had a guest, Pathfinder.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The switch from familiar to professional is quick and almost fluid, and Reyes can certainly admire the dedication to her craft, as well as her commitment to Ryder’s secrecy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine. Anything urgent?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not at all,” she replies, finally tearing her eyes away from the unexpected figure beside Ryder to address her commander. “Just some preliminary scans, nothing vital. I’ll email you the information and you can sign off on it, when you have a moment.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Closing off any talk of open discussion in front of Reyes, whether Ryder would allow it or not. Reyes hasn’t been this politely thrown aside since his days in Omega, when he was nothing more than a transport for people far more powerful than him. He hadn’t expected a warm welcome from the more illusive parts of Ryder’s crew, but the blatant distrust is something of a surprise, given the amount of time he spends with their leader.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks, I’ll look into it,” Ryder acknowledges, flicking his eyes between the Asari and his unorthodox companion as they look one another over. “Right, I forgot you don’t get out much. Lexi, this is Reyes Vidal. Reyes, this is Lexi T’Perro, our resident life-saver.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Vidal,” she blurts, looking him over again with the filter of this new information. “The </span>
  <em>
    <span>Charlatan, </span>
  </em>
  <span>of course. I’ve heard quite a bit about you. Dr. Nakamoto’s clinic couldn’t have thrived without your donations.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes inclines his head slightly in polite thanks, but doubts very much that her full account of him came from a doctor in the slums. “I’m happy to say that Nakamoto has taken his practice to Ditaeon,” he responds. “A considerable upgrade. He’s never had the upmost trust in the Collective, and I’m pleased to see him somewhere he deserves.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, he never did quite believe you were there to serve the people,” she hums in agreement, studying him with a carefully construed interest. “Was he wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes has a brief moment to wonder whether being blunt came standard to being six hundred years old, or if Ryder’s crew had simply spent too long diverting their paths from direct authority, and had forgotten the art of professional discourtesy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Helping influential people in a time of need is not a crime, Doctor,” he replies calmly. “The more people that live, the better off we all are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She studies him, keen eyes of intellect that have drawn indecent admissions from powerful men. “Of course not,” she agrees, a dangerous tone to her inflection. “And the armament you sell under the table, does that help save lives?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder shifts uncomfortably beside him. “Lexi, come on--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“--No, it’s alright,” Reyes raises a hand lightly in a request for Scott to stand down. “It’s an honest question.” He turns back towards the Asari, the only living being that probably knows Scott’s vulnerabilities as well as SAM. “My funding is not infinite. That armament is sold to your outposts, to keep our citizens safe, and in exchange, I create the commerce. You’ll forgive me if I refuse to rely on your Initiative's distribution of wealth, or their priorities. No doctor should have to treat his patients in an unsterile cargo container because he was deemed no longer worthy of consideration.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, and Reyes doesn’t need the hint that he’s not improving the situation. But being backed into a corner was never his best spot for thinking clearly, and the Pathfinder team seems incessant on dragging his intentions to the surface to be poked and prodded and overwhelmingly evaluated. The least he could do is give them a talking point. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Loyalty, he understands. He commands it, generates it, builds it from nothing. But a world doesn’t exist where one of his representatives would dare sit down with Scott and pick him apart in this way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then Lexi smiles begrudgingly at him. It's almost worth the exposure, even if she doesn’t comment on her own ideals. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That reasoning won’t hold up forever, you know. Eventually you’ll have to play by the rules.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course. One day, I expect he Pathfinder team will have to as well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Christ,” Ryder interrupts. “Are we done? I don’t know what’s happening on this ship, but if you or anyone else wants to argue about the moral implications of a sovereign leadership on a seceded planet, do it in personal emails. I’ll forward his contact info to you,” he adds sarcastically to Lexi, grabbing at Reyes’s cuff to pull him away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t forget about my scans, Ryder!” She calls after them, unfazed, and Scott waves her off with a vague hand motion as he steers Reyes towards a large, central door beneath the bridge of the ship. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Pathfinder’s quarters look like much of the rest of the ship -- as though no one’s had a chance to get their shit together. Datapads are stacked precariously on top of a private server, and the desk is hardly visible under the collection of binders, weapon parts, and several </span>
  <em>
    <span>rocks</span>
  </em>
  <span>, for whatever reason. The bed is a nest of blankets and pillows, and a the sofa is home to at least three separate articles of clothing, a few heat sinks, and dog-earned book with a frayed and well-loved cover. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s a mess,” Ryder announces as the door shuts behind them. “I’m not sorry about it, I just want you to know that I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a busy man,” Reyes considers, a smile creeping across his face as he watches Ryder stare his room down as though it’s personally betrayed him for not keeping itself respectable. Reyes gives the room a second glance, then picks up an actual paper notebook that was left on the table next to the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Paper, Scott?” he asks, unable to bite back the surprise in his voice. “A bit...archaic. Where did you even get this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah,” Scott replies, trying for nonchalant and ending up somewhere between embarrassed and dismissive. “I secured a crate of them before we left. It’s nothing weird. I like… having physical evidence of things. It’s calming.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sounds mortified at the admission, and Reyes has no intention of letting him off the hook. “You’re the most senior tech expert on this ship, and you don’t trust your own servers?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder shrugs. “It’s hard to trust something you have to keep fixing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes snorts and places the notebook back down gently, cognizant of its bizarre yet sublime importance. “You must place very little trust in this universe, then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott throws himself onto the couch, dropping his head back onto the cushion. “Stop trying to dig, I’m tired and cranky. Besides, it’s your turn in the spotlight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes finds a seat on the couch across from him, nudging a discarded shirt to the floor with as much grace as he can muster. “That why you called me here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Half the reason, yeah.” He lifts his head back up and leans forward, sighing as though he regrets it. “We need to clear some things up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes watches him, trying to read into the expressions Ryder is all too happy to paste across his face in his place of sanctuary. He knew Ryder wouldn’t have wanted privacy for anything good, but walking in blind was the type of foolish arrogance only The Pathfinder could afford. “Does this have anything to do with your entire crew putting a target on my back?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not like that,” Ryder tries to argue, but it’s wounded, and doesn’t quite reach his eyes. When Reyes doesn’t answer, he runs a hand through his hair again. “Alright, so it is like that, but it’s warranted. They don’t want you </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead </span>
  </em>
  <span>or anything, but there’s… issues. Some things have come up. Just, answer a few questions so I can appease Cora and we can move on from this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” Reyes aquiences. “If that’s what--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, wait, I have conditions,” Ryder interrupts, finally meeting his eyes, and Reyes finds a concerning amount of solemnness within them. Whatever this is about, it’s not at Ryder’s behest, and he’s unsettled. “Condition one: you tell the truth. If you’re unable to tell the truth for whatever reason, you remain silent. But absolutely no lies.” He pauses, waits for it to sink in, and continues. “Condition two: This is between us. The crew will rely on my word, but I won’t share the details with them. And nothing we say leaves this room.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Condition three,” Reyes follows up, reaching over to take the neglected decanter set on the table next to them. “I get to ask something as well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder hesitates. The two of them make deals frequently, but they are impersonal, born of the need to stabilize supply chains and control the fluctuating and sporadic needs of the citizens, protocol be damned. They never question, and they never discuss. Reyes lays his offerings on the table, Ryder chooses the commitment, and they go back to bickering over coffee brands and whether or not Kian is sleeping with the new dancer in Tartarus. Questioning anything between them, or their tactics, is something that simply doesn’t happen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,” he finally gives, accepting the glass of his own untouched bourbon that Reyes offers. “I’m first. Um.” He takes a hefty swig, preparation for all the things he clearly doesn’t want to know, and grimances. “We know we’re being watched, by you. By your Collective, anyway. Do you have agents on every planet with an outpost?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder looks at him, trying to read whatever alternate answers he doesn’t want to put in the air between them, but resigns himself to a short nod. If he’s surprised Reyes is willing to participate in this impromptu interrogation, he doesn’t show it, but he doesn’t seem particularly grateful either. This is a man happier not knowing.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” Ryder continues. “My conversation with Dr. Rilar and Dr. Baumgarten on Havarl was leaked. The Nexus is in an uproar about the ramifications of accelerated plant growth, blah blah. It’s caused a lot of issues, a lot of protests, and the study hasn’t even produced viable results yet.” He takes another drink, smaller this time, more manageable. Studious in the face of unknown territory. “Was that you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes considers his options. If he lies during these questions, Ryder may or may not know. He’s lied enough that he’s confident he could even fool SAM, if his pulse were being monitored. But Ryder has invited him here, and is swallowing bourbon like it might be the glue needed to stick these two drifting parts of him back together. The part that loves his crew, and wants to pacify their concerns. And the part that wants to hold onto this casual intimacy he shares with Reyes for just a moment longer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For that, Reyes will do what he’s always done: give Ryder what he wants, when no one else will. He’ll give him exactly what he needs. And in this case, it’s honesty, the stepping stone needed to keep Ryder’s family from tearing into his unspoken happiness piece by piece until they’ve declared the resulting tattered piles unworthy of the man they love. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I heard your conversation the moment it happened,” he admits, and Ryder stares at the floor, unmoving, waiting. “But I didn’t leak it. That line of communication runs solely through my agent and myself. My best guess is that someone left a bug at the station; likely Angaran, given the circumstances.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder runs his finger across the rim of his glass, digesting this information. His shoulders seem to relax, if only marginally. “Which one of them is yours?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes remains silent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” Ryder nods, graciously accepting of his own rules. “That’s fair. Next question: how many agents do you have on Elaaden?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Seventeen, currently,” Reyes responds on instinct. “Four in The Paradise, seven in the new management of the Flophouse remains, one in New Tuchanka, and the rest are scattered, not regulated to a post.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“New Tuchanka?” Ryder repeats, surprise winning out over the influx of new information. “You snagged a Krogan, that’s…” He trails off, considering, and runs a hand across the shadow of a beard that lines his jaw. “Okay. How many Collective total?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes remains silent, watching Ryder over the edge of his glass as he takes an easy drink, and Ryder’s eyes follow the movement with careful attentiveness until it tears past the line of professional. His gaze flicks to Reyes’s fingers, to the pistol on his thigh, taking in the quietly broadcasted danger Reyes has spent the better part of a decade mastering. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Harder question,” Ryder continues, but his voice sounds a little hallow, his thoughts elsewhere. “Do you have surveillance on the Tempest?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Reyes answers easily. “I don’t press my luck against SAM.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Appreciated, Mr. Vidal,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>SAM’s voice interjects. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Reporting your attempts at infiltration would have been an uncomfortable topic.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes snorts, and wisely decides not to bring up all the snooping Ryder has done. He knows the difference between light-hearted fun between two friends, two colleagues, and Reyes’s more selfish interests. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder, seeming slightly relaxed by Reyes’s easy, confident answers, begins firing off questions in urgency, as though internal investigations of long-standing allies was just another checkmarked daily tally to be completed. Or, he simply wants to get it over with as quickly as possible. Reyes has learned Ryder’s tells by now, but this is a new environment between them, and Ryder is a skittish and unpredictable beast when forced to deal with personal revelations. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. Do you have personal surveillance on any one of my crew members?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Reyes answers easily, far more confident now that he knows this line of questioning won’t be more than a guarantee of safety from The Collective’s eyes.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you ever made an attempt on the life of anyone in my crew?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you ever sabotaged any of my missions for personal gain?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you ever sent an agent to record my activity outside of Kadara?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder stops, momentarily taken aback by the answer. His eyes find Reyes’s, questions and a bleak helplessness in his expression, and Reyes raises his glass for another drink, praying that Ryder holds his gaze as he elaborates in a slightly heavier tone, less his intentions be construed as something innocent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I watch you every chance I get, Pathfinder.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott Ryder, for all his battlefield instincts and charismatic intuition, swallows heavily and lowers his gaze back to the carpet. His hands curls around the empty glass that now exists solely to occupy them. The silence is a hovering catalyst between them, and the distance between their bodies is a measurable burden, uncommitted to either joining or separating them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Last bit,” Ryder mumbles finally, rolling his shoulders to focus and forcibly driving down the lingering currents between them. “Heard you finally met Addison.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I did,” Reyes responds brightly, delighting in the heated reaction he was able to pull from Ryder, but knowing that Ryder wouldn’t fully allow himself to trust its validity when Reyes is still on trial. “She’s very… opinionated, isn’t she?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Seems suspicious to meet her yourself. I thought Vidal wasn’t that high up on the Collective chain? Mid-tier dirtbag, at best.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wasn’t intentional,” Reyes elaborates, ignoring the jab that had been an inside joke between them for the last few months, a strain for normality. “She had been meeting with Crux as a representative, and I happened to be escorting Nakamoto and his supplies to his new office. She was insistent on meeting the Doctor, unfortunately; urgent to explain to him that it was never the Initiative’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>intentions </span>
  </em>
  <span>for things to go the way they did. No thanks for taking out Sloane, either. Made it seem like the Collective owed it to the Initiative, somehow. Very charming.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They want to play nice, you know.” Ryder’s voice is quiet and commiserating, forever on the cusp of throwing his loyalties around with no real regard to either side. To him, to most of them, all factions have been an equal measurement of disappointment and callous disregard. Reyes has always respected his opponents, and he believes </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>more than anything is what swayed Ryder, the enduring underdog, to his side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“An interesting start,” Reyes considers. “Respect goes both ways, I’m afraid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder watches him closely, and Reyes knows the question is coming before it even graces his lips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“One more, Vidal. Do you intend on allowing Diaeton to grow on Kadara? Is there something I need to know about your intentions?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes considers not answering. His intentions change and move with the single actions of every day citizens, and his future, while generally following a map of preferences, is undefined. He knows what he wants, but how he’ll obtain it can’t yet be decided -- not when the galaxy around him is rapidly changing and evolving, and the list of influencers rises every day. </span>
</p>
<p><span>“The more Kadara grows, the more my Collective will benefit,” he answers finally. “Having the Initiative here doesn’t bother me, and your outpost will do far more good than harm. But Scott--” He forces Ryder to meet his eyes, to carry the understanding, and its significance, between them. “Kadara Port is ours. Not the Initiative’s, not Addison’s, </span><em><span>ours. </span></em><span>You and I made it into what it is.</span> <span>The moment Tann chooses to underestimate my control, my hand will be forced. The moment you forget your place in that gleaming palace of bullshit, Scott...”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>He leaves the warning trailing off, but he knows Ryder understands. They haven’t spoken out loud of their shared disdain for Ryder’s less than warm welcomes with Initiative hierarchy, but Ryder’s clenched fists after meetings and Reyes casual dismissal has always said enough. The moment Ryder forgets that he has a voice, forgets he’s not simply an extension of the Initiative’s trigger finger, is the moment he’ll no longer be the man Reyes partnered with. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott nods, eyes glittering in some half-shameful interest that he hides behind a professional veil of concern. “Well, I did ask for honesty,” he says, huffing a laugh to hide the startling revelation. “Alright, now, part two.” He slams the rest of his drink and Reyes watches him with a hungry expression that he knows says too much, but he’s beyond schooling his features. Maybe they won’t talk about it. But it’s foolish to think they both don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Part two,” Reyes agrees. “Which I’m hoping results in less disappointments for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder laughs uncomfortably, and Reyes knows the innuendo landed, even if it won’t be addressed. He holds out his glass and Reyes expertly pours him another two fingers without question. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Condition two still applies.” Ryder’s gaze is focused on the far wall, mulling over how he wants to begin as he pulls his glass back towards him. A moment of silence passes and Reyes watches him, curiosity slowly curling into concern as the man he’s known for the better part of a year allows his gaze to become distant and unfocused. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ryder?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. “Sorry. Right. ...We’ve found a way to locate Meridian.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes sucks in a breath. It isn't what he was expecting. “This is big news, Pathfinder.” He pauses, studying the dull, worried expression across from him, so unlike the malleable confidence he’s used to. “...You don’t look pleased.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder’s fingers circle his glass. A nervous habit, one that keeps someone occupied just long enough to avoid swallowing their liquor as soon as it’s within range. “The Archon has been silent. He’s waiting for me to make a move, and I think this is it. I think… I think I’m going to have to take that son of a bitch down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes frowns, the displacement of Ryder’s optimism a wedge in their deeply rooted harmony. “I’ve watched you take down Architects as a joyride. Surely you know you can win this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder attempts a laugh, but it comes out shaky and hollow. “Sure. But I can’t be everywhere at once. If they launch an assault while I’m at the other end of the galaxy, I can’t do shit. We’re still hurting. There’s too much vulnerability.” Bleak, previously unspoken thoughts turn Ryder’s PR-ready face into something drawn and heavy. “Dividing our attention, exposing our lack of unity... it’s their best course of action.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The statement leaves the air between them tight and open ended. Reyes moves closer, watches the broken expressions shift on the man before him. The same man who hunts down kett for stress relief, the man who spits disdain over the intercom to his superiors, and the man who fits confidently into the spaces he’s carved out for himself in the galaxy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A man who is burdened, saddled by a job that will haunt him for an eternity. The man who aches to supply a happiness he can’t obtain. A man who shoulders his tasks alone, fearful of allowing others to drown alongside him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why did you call me here, Scott?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only then does Ryder look at him fully. It’s a compelling thing, to be the entire focus of a human being like The Pathfinder. For a moment, Reyes is reminded of the power this man holds, and how much of it he’s managed to captivate. For a moment, he doesn’t see his friend; he sees the figurehead of their accomplishments, the beacon of their productivity. He sees the man that saved them all, and the man who will sacrifice everything to do it one more time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In that moment, he realizes Ryder is trying to say goodbye, </span>
  <em>
    <span>just in case, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Reyes won’t stand for it. Not when there's so many things still unsaid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I haven’t gotten to ask my question,” he interjects immediately, temporarily overwhelmed. Ryder’s eyebrows knit together in confusion long enough that Reyes has to elaborate. “In exchange for your verbal interrogation of my secrets.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Right.” Scott is put out, the mood shifting from a dismal reality to wary caution. Another unknown. Reyes has wrestled away the firm grip on the handles on this conversation, but he doesn’t know where to steer, and only one destination seems relevant anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are we still committed to not talking about this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder’s face hardens at the abrupt demand, and he stares Reyes down as though personally betrayed. They don’t talk about it. Not outright. Scott’s fingers tap on his glass, off rhythm, and there’s a mounting anger and cautionary disquiet smearing the professional lines that define him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Has someone said something to you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He should have expected the callous redirection of frustration, but Reyes naively soaks it up without question, ready for something to latch onto besides the abrupt culmination of their time together. The swallowed anger is sharp and sour in his gut, and he hates the way Scott’s eyes flick away from him, already uncommitted to holding up his end of their finale. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that a joke?” Reyes asks, scoffing a laugh that’s just the wrong side of bitter. “It’s all anyone talks about.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“On </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kadara</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Scott rebuts, like it matters. “Word doesn’t travel fast out of here. The only saving grace is your ban on drone coverage, because all Tann has to back my association rap sheet is the fucking rumor mill he keeps on tap.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, so you’re ashamed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott sighs in annoyance, and Reyes knows he’s digging too deep, but there’s a tension in Scott’s shoulders that he doesn’t normally carry in their privacy, even when every passing day seems more and more likely to take his life. Reyes has spent the better part of eight months watching Scott tremble through accepting it, defiant at his best times, hopeful he’d be taking his last breath at the worst.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder’s team would give him space, because that’s what he wants. But Reyes and his unique brand of </span>
  <em>
    <span>not giving a shit</span>
  </em>
  <span> about Ryder’s devotion to cause and appropriate extracurricular activities has always been what Scott </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs</span>
  </em>
  <span>. At least to that, they can commit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course I’m not. There’s nothing to--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your crew doesn’t trust me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott glares daggers at him, because if there’s anything he hates, it’s being spoken over. Reyes knows it, and he isn’t ashamed to utilize it for his advantage, not when Scott’s more likely to lash out in harsh truths once he feels he needs to remind the room of his voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’ve never fucking trusted you, Reyes. This can’t come as a shock,” he bites back, the verbal equivalent of rolling his eyes. He doesn’t hesitate to stand and refill his glass, already convinced that he’ll handle the eventual end of this argument better if he were drunk in advance. Save himself the twenty minutes of sobriety he’ll have to suffer through once Reyes leaves, unable to deal with his emotional hinderances. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bullshit.” Reyes counters, following Ryder’s lead and standing, taking a few steps closer just to watch Ryder take a step back. As though Reyes could possibly be considered the threat between them. “What changed?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder laughs wildly, combing a hand through his hair like he can't believe Reyes has the fucking balls to tread on this sacred, unspoken ritual they still try to pretend is a secret. “Unsanctioned trades, maybe? That you’ve murdered men just to send a message, and I don’t seem to have a fucking problem with it? That I let you screw me out of nearly every resource I have?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Outside of Harper, who ever gave a shit about any of that?” Reyes asks, bewildered and disappointed that Scott manages to stand up so well against the onslaught of bureaucracy, but was failing spectacularly once put on trial. “Something is different, and I want to know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing is different!” Ryder responds, the bourbon sloshing dangerously in his glass as he jerks in defiance. “I haven’t said a single goddamn thing, alright? They’ve been watching us for a fucking year, Reyes, you don’t think they’re going to come to some conclusions? You don’t think they take those rumors seriously, that we’re screwing around so you can gain Pathfinder favor? And </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>man, I don’t blame them. I give you everything you ask for. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Everything.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ryder closes the distance between them, an angry snarl to his words and that telltale crinkle of agitation on the bridge of his nose. “Look, maybe this is how you treat your Collective, but I’m not going to stand here and be forced to respond to questions you already know the fucking answer to.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes can’t help the sharp laugh of incredulity. “Oh, so this is how you’ve convinced yourself of what’s going on? They’re concerned that I’m, what, </span>
  <em>
    <span>using </span>
  </em>
  <span>you? Or is that what </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re </span>
  </em>
  <span>afraid of?” Regret and hurt are pulsing through him, because it’s the first time in his life that he’s detested the reputation that preceded him. It’s not incorrect, not by definition, and he’s never shied away from the man he projects, impenitent or not. But still, the insouciance he manages so easily in other situations is nowhere to be found; not here, and not with this man.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder only drains his glass, an unapologetic statement of his belief that spits in the face of their uncharted intimacy. A metaphorical </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck you </span>
  </em>
  <span>that smugly invites Reyes to prove him wrong, if he even can. It cuts deeper than Reyes prepared himself for, and the pulse of regret is switch-flipped to anger, bubbling and heady. It fuels an insane desire to remind Ryder that Reyes has never put up with this shit, and he sure as fuck isn’t about to start.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe I am using you,” he continues darkly, pushing into Scott’s space just to watch him move back, the fixed force finally overcoming the immovable object. He’s equal parts furious and in love with the man before him, and the chemical reaction of two volatile emotions is threatening to undo his carefully constructed graces. “And hell, maybe I am selfish.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder is watching him with focused, expectant eyes, unsure of where the moment is going, but welcoming the power play if it can trigger either his fight or flight. Reyes became addicted to that undivided attention long ago, and if Ryder wanted him to be honest about the things he </span>
  <em>
    <span>already knew the answer to, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he would.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll use you whenever I have a moment, Ryder,” he breathes out, happy to let the urgent coursing of his blood take the reins, watching Ryder falter at the candor. “I’ll use you to distract myself from the men I kill. I’ll use you and your stupid goddamn messages as a cheap way to make myself smile. I will use your company, your attention, and your reckless fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>need </span>
  </em>
  <span>for me to get through every miserable day I have.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grabs the front of Ryder’s shirt, fisting his fingers into the AI logo until he holds it in the palm of his hand, his own voice sounding foreign to him, never one to use the emotional play. Always so collected. “But don’t you dare imply that I could </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>take anything you didn’t want to give me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott’s eyes only narrow, but he can’t hide the movement of his throat as he swallows, highlighting the apprehension he hides so well. “I have been very careful,” he starts, finally leaning back into Reyes’s space, reclaiming his rights to the conversation. “Not to take the things I want.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah? Well no one asked you to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Reyes has pushed him far enough, and it’s no big surprise when Scott’s shoving him away violently, his empty glass a hard press into the tender skin of Reyes’s shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Everyone </span>
  </em>
  <span>is asking me to! I can’t deal with this shit, Reyes!” he snaps, composure dwindling as Reyes keeps his forced distance. “Not right now, okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lets Ryder breath, just for a moment. Just enough to calm the rise and fall of his shoulders into something less likely to beckon a fistfight the moment Reyes opens his mouth. He’s seen the trauma of Ryder’s aggression firsthand, felt the resulting spike of interest it breeds through him, a corruption that threatens to undo the firmly secured grip he has on his control. And walking out of the Tempest with a bloodied face wouldn’t be a good look for the man who’s supposedly secured Scott Ryder’s bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your team has your back, you know,” he begins softly, and Ryder’s eyes spark in warning as they focus in on the table beside Reyes, just to have something to pinpoint. “It’s almost kind of flattering that they feel the need to protect you from my eventually backstabbing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Making a fucking joke about it isn’t your wisest decision right now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes shrugs. “You laugh at the serious topics, not me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder says nothing, knowing he’s lost that particular fight, but the light in his eyes is dimming again, the high of a potential confrontation taking the last traces of enthusiasm from him as it waned. Reyes doesn’t begrudge Ryder his security, nor his respect for his team, but there isn’t a shot in hell that Reyes will ever be the kind of man that Ryder can publicly kiss in victory. Not when The Pathfinder’s own image is so undefined, his professional profile perpetually scrutinized. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Give me a SAM implant.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder laughs immediately, a unique reaction that’s cultivated through shock, something to numb the pain of surprise. “Fuck off.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A beat of silence, heavy in the air as the request resonates, while Ryder takes the time to fully digest the magnitude. He chances a look at Reyes, as though the words hadn’t translated correctly from inanity to common sense. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Reyes, c’mon. That’s the last thing you want,” he sighs, disappointment weaving through the shock, trying to find the holes in this otherwise legitimate solution to the problem neither of them have, but demands to be fixed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Obviously. So if you see another option, please, bring it to my attention.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder, his blood cooling, retakes his seat on the couch and runs his hands over his face. “That’s not-- I don’t want that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good, then we’re on the same page.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Internally, Reyes is furious with himself for the suggestion. There’s not a chance in hell he could operate as he normally does with a super intelligent AI watching his every move, a theater and an audience for his less than altruistic decisions, each one carefully detailed and analyzed before being reported back to the one fucking person in his life that he’d actually like to impress.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hesitates, uncomfortably aware of his heart dangling on his sleeve. “There are some things I’d rather you not see.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder rubs at his neck and closes his eyes, and Reyes knows instantly that he’s said the wrong thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There isn’t a single thing I do that isn’t broadcasted across an entire galaxy, man. I don’t have any sympathy for you there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It rubs Reyes wrong, the lack of respect for his painstakingly crafted anonymity. How he has to be a thousand types of cruel and forgiving, empathetic, but vengeful. Powerful, yet… forgettable. It stings to know that Ryder’s partnership is his most coveted of roles, the one he’s most proud of, and yet somehow, his most shameful. “Right. The only thing you hide is me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s childish, and Ryder’s resulting glare calls him out on it. “Don’t play that game,” he warns. “It’s not fair, and you know it. I didn't ask for a fucking spotlight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Reyes responds quickly, trying to quell his frustration. “I’m--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“--And fuck you for saying that. Pretty sure this entire Port knows I’m yours anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes has known Ryder for long enough that the bluntness of it shouldn’t shock, but it does, hitting his core and spreading out like the warm swathe of good alcohol. His heart flickers in his chest, the unspoken finally laid bare with so very little pretense that Reyes feels foolish for ever having doubted it. Scott is watching him, the heat evident despite his long-standing pastime of leaving Reyes wondering if he read too deeply, looked too closely. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t think. All that comes out is, “Do you want to be?” Because suddenly it’s so fucking important that it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ryder </span>
  </em>
  <span>that answers, not Cora, not the Initiative, and not Reyes, with his ever guiding hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder pauses, thoughtful. “Do you really want that implant?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” he answers honestly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then yes, I do,” Ryder rises from his seat, his hair still screwed up from where he’d been running his hands through it in agitation, only minutes ago. “On one condition.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Which is?” Reyes asks, struggling not to reach out for Ryder as he stands too close, intentions known and accepted as easily as he’d watched Reyes gun down Sloane, watched him disregard all semblance of legality and carve his way through the world with only a sharp tongue and a sharper blade. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder moves first, his eyes raking down Reyes unapologetically, now that his cards are face up on the table. His fingers find the holster on Reyes’s thigh, trailing upwards to catch on the edges of his jacket, tugging lightly, moving Reyes closer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t change for me,” he says softly, an admittance he’s kept locked up and sealed, ever conscious of its fallout. “You’re making progress where I can’t. You’re the one goddamn thing I have that’s not issued and stamped with Initiative approval. I know you’ve got your secrets, and I won’t ask you for them, but… tell me this shit isn’t one sided. Just this once, give me full honesty. Tell me you want </span>
  <em>
    <span>me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and not my leverage</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Relief floods him. The rest of his day could erupt into flames and Reyes would walk through it with a blank expression, undeterred, his mind still trying to process being given something he’d never sought to take, a prize far beyond the grip of any of the men he pretends to be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want you,” he admits easily. “I have since the beginning. But you have people to please, and I’m-- well. Look,” he inhales, rallying himself for honesty. “I liked being who I was to you. It was a good power trip, good information. But then--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott nods, and Reyes has never been so grateful to be understood, even when the words themselves should have earned him a fist to the gut. “I liked that you didn’t give a shit who I was. That you didn't care. But... then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They falter, too much laid bare at once for two people who make a habit of not talking about it. Reyes needs to breathe, and Scott looks like he’s forgotten how to move. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Scott, departure time is in twenty minutes. Cora has returned and is waiting for you to sign off on the requisitions.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>SAM’s interruption jolts Reyes out of his momentary loss of words. “I’m going to go,” he says bluntly, and Scott’s eyes flick up to his, worried, and Reyes attempts a stuttering pacification. “No, not like that. You have things to do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The reminder of Scott’s imminent showdown flashes across his face in a series of swallowed emotions. Fear, panic, determination, fury, then silence. He nods. “Right. I’ll um, walk you out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t bother,” Reyes waves him off. “I know my way out, and I don’t think you need any more well-intended interrogations.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder nods, but still looks put out, distracted, once again taken advantage of by the spiraling lack of control over his schedule, life, and future. He seems half a second away from asking Reyes to stay, and if Ryder looks at him like that one more time, Reyes might be stupid enough to say yes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, he takes Ryder’s hand in his and brings it to his lips, kissing the bruised knuckles in something that he hopes passes for a deeper sentiment than affection. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come back to me, Scott,” he says, finally allowing the acknowledgement of the goodbye that Ryder never gathered the courage to say. He flashes a smile, letting the moment settle into something familiar. “I’ll be watching.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder scoffs and pulls back his hand, but there’s a twinge of red in his neck as he turns away and waves him off, and Reyes leaves satisfied, the feeling of Ryder’s hand in his lingering like a ghost of promise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he sees Cora as he departs, he straightens his jacket pointedly and smiles as her glare turns into blatant concern, her eyes quickly flicking over to Ryder’s closed door. He slips her a wink, because old habits die hard, and leaves the Tempest, pulling up his omnitool to draft orders for any and every shuttle the Collective can find. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Ryder thought Reyes wouldn’t be following him into hell, his read of Reyes’s dedication was way more off the mark than he thought.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The station is a cacophony of sound and eruption when Kandros gets the call on his omnitool. He takes a single moment to snarl at the encrypted caller, wondering if the security breach has anything to do with the current clusterfuck at the Hyperion, or if he was just exceptionally unlucky. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How’d you get this line?” He snaps into his earpiece, hurriedly gesturing away his final briefed team for the potential recapture of their human ark. They turn and break into a full sprint in the direction of the uproar, all their fears founded but pushed aside in their adrenaline and discipline. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hardly an appropriate time for useless questions, Lieutenant.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pauses. No one has called him by his former military title in over six hundred years, and it’s a jarring reminder of stricter times, when organization was pivotal, and he didn’t need to rely on a volunteer militia of scared botanists. Whoever the man on his line is, he has information long since lost, and a definite flair for capturing attention.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m busy. Speak your mind, or disconnect,” Kandros barks, resolutely trying to ignore the flashes of alerts that grace every hologrammed surface of the Nexus, and the frantic engineers that are desperately trying to mitigate the damages by screaming to one another over the ruckus. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I have thirty-two shuttles and twenty-seven Corvettes ready to assist.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A new alarm blares to life, and he winces, despite himself. “What the hell are you--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kandros!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s stopped short by one of the communications crew, a Salarian named Dovian, tripping towards him in apparent urgency. Breathless, the Salarian holds up his omnitool and begins tapping it to life. “Call just came through -- the kett are retreating! Ryder’s found Meridian, but the Archon--” he stops, panting. “--Archon is pulling all resources and heading towards the location -- we don’t know what he’s after. They have the Hyperion. They’re--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kandros has heard enough. “Forward this communication to all outposts and known allies--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We have, sir,” Dovian replies. “Ryder’s orders. We’ve overwhelmed the comm channels. Everyone is getting the word--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gather whatever fleet you can and tell them to make way for Civki. We’ll attempt organization upon arrival.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir,” the Salarian nods, and he’s gone, voice frantic but commanding in his omnitool as he rushes blindly back towards his station. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You heard the Pathfinder, stranger,” Kandros says to the silent man still on his line. He holsters his pistol and grabs his rifle from the locker, pocketing whatever ammunition that’s left after his teams had raided the supplies. “Get your men to the Civki System.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’ll have my men, Kandros. But I want authorization to personally be in the first wave.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who the hell is this?” Kandros barks again, slamming a heat sink into his rifle and starting towards the docking bay where his Boundless awaited him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Reyes Vidal, of The Collective.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Goddamnit,” he curses, pushing passed a throng of panicked commissary workers as he makes his way through the mass of unrest at a half-run. Warning lights are flashing, reflecting off the walls and illuminating the chaos. “If The Charlatan gives a damn about any of us, he’d already have his fleet halfway to war right now--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m already here, Tiran.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kandros stops moving, if only for a moment. Bodies crash into him with little regard, but his attention has been zeroed down into the unexpected intel he’d just been casually thrown, as though it were common knowledge. As though Tann and Addison haven’t been on the warpath of trying to track down the Charlatan’s identity.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You--?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“There’s little time to waste. My shuttle designation is N-503, call sign Anubis. I’m a capable pilot and fighter. You will grant me authority to accompany you in the first wave, as well as amnesty for any Collective member that fights today, then desires to return to The Initiative.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t authorize that,” Kandros answers immediately, resuming his run as more pilots and fighters join him, shouting to one another and arranging transportation as best they can in the chaos. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“The Pathfinder can. I just need your word that you’ll back him up.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kandros hesitates to answer, considering. He’s heard of both the Charlatan </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>Reyes Vidal. Important players, the both of them, and both of them tied to either Kadara, or the human Pathfinder himself. Rumor was that the Pathfinder had unambiguously sided with The Charlatan during some Kadara showdown, but Kadros has long questioned the intentions of this aptly named Shadow King. Going public with Vidal’s alter ego could effectively dismantle an unknown entity and secure a better foothold for the Initiative. Was he obligated, morally, to do so?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And your identity?” </span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“That is your choice. I trust you’ll make the right call.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He considers what he knows. The Pathfinder is bright, quick to reach conclusions and fit together pieces with no previously known ties. There’s little doubt in Kandros’s mind that Scott Ryder knows this man’s true identity, and has kept that secret from the rest of them. Either their Pathfinder trusts this dual-faced leader based on evidence Kandros couldn’t know, or he was being played, strung along as a set piece. Gossip has pinned Ryder and Vidal’s unlikely friendship as a match to kerosene, and not all together platonic. Is Ryder in the best mindset to trust this man? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ultimately, it comes down to his trust in Ryder. The human Pathfinder has never been compromised, he’s efficient, and he gets results, even going as far as defying authority to do so. He pulled all their asses out of the fire. Ryder may not have known it, but he’d earned Kandros’s loyalty a long time ago. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your Collective,” he responds, panting slightly from exertion as he reaches the bay and climbs aboard his shuttle, gesturing for any available militia member to join him while he still has the room. “I won’t endorse them publicly, but you have my word that I’ll speak my mind to our leadership about your contributions. I will support Ryder’s argument for amnesty, if he chooses to do so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes, The </span>
  <em>
    <span>Charlatan, </span>
  </em>
  <span>seems to accept that answer. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Wonderful. Patch my shuttle in on your official frequency once you arrive. I’ll join your descent into atmo.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait--” he pauses, cautious of making unwise decisions in the middle of a high stakes situation. He knows better than this, doesn’t he? Will he come to regret this? Is he a fool? But urgency is festering in the air around him, his ship’s controls blinking to life. His friends and allies, his newly formed family that have been tested in famine, conflict, and helplessness, are pitching their shuttles into the cold dark of space before him to join a battle that seems unwinnable in their shared crisis. He can think of only a few words to say, and he hopes they come across as transparent as the bleak, fragile optimism he speaks them with. “You’re with us, right? You’re with the Pathfinder?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“No,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Reyes Vidal answers, and there’s a clarity to his dedication that knocks Kandros on his ass, despite everything. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m with Scott Ryder.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Charlatan ends the call abruptly, just as Kandros’s second nervously seats himself in the co-pilot's chair, nodding his consent to depart. The airlocks close and seal with a hiss, and Kandros pulls back on the controls, lifting his team into the vast endless night to join the militia. As he pulls away from the Nexus, his brothers and sisters at his side, a sense of pre-battle calm engulfs him, and his focus returns as Reyes words echo in his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m with Scott Ryder. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Engaging FTL drive,” he announces to the shuttle. Then, turning to his co-pilot, he adds, “When we arrive, patch in the Hyperion, the Pathfinders, the Tempest, Evfra, and shuttle N-503, callsign </span>
  <em>
    <span>Anubis.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If his second questions his request, he keeps it to himself. In the rows of seats behind him, someone is playing Scott Ryder’s call to arms, courtesy of one Vetra Nyx, and it floats up towards the cockpit, honest in its visceral, raw intensity. His heavy words follow them all out into the far reaches of space, with Kandros in the lead.</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>“...Everyone in Heleus has earned some fucking payback.”</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Scott is first out of the Vault, handing an ashen-faced but smiling Sara off to Lexi to be transferred to the closest medbay. His fingers linger on her back, reluctant to let go, but his team is gathering around him, flanked by the stragglers of their brazen march into hell. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes hangs back, nursing what is undoubtedly a cracked rib, a worrisome limp in his knee, and a large, half-cauterized gash across his hand from some fucked up kett weaponry. Still, the sight of Scott, boots crunching hard on the rubble as he’s surrounded and praised, is a balm for the terror and uncertainty of the past six hours. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hears Suvi questioning something, but his hearing is still shot from the exploding fuel tank he hadn’t cleared the range of, and there’s a dull buzz layered over all his inputs. His body staggers, close to passing out, and he seats himself on one of the less wobbly pieces of debris before his vision can go completely white. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s so distracted by the comedown of his adrenaline, sending his muscles into throbbing protest, and the sight of Scott, unmistakably alive, that he doesn’t notice the company. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What he does notice, though, is the needle being rammed into his shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the shit--!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peebee sits next to him, unconcerned as she yanks the needle back out. “Hold still, I need to do your hand next.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s looking rough, having crawled out of hell right alongside Ryder, and her normal blue hues are paler, streaked with dirt and grime and shades of blood. But her eyes are sparkling, and already she looks keen for more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sting of the needle is nothing compared the rest of his injuries, but he could have used without a new irritation. “The hell was that, Pelessaria?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Antibiotics. We haven’t run a full scan on the atmosphere here yet, or the bacteria, and you’ve got enough open wounds that they’re officially going out of style. Say thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t, but she grabs his arm anyway and applies a healthy dose of medi-gel to the worst of his cuts. It stings on contact, and he grits his teeth as it solidifies into a barrier, stopping the bleeding and keeping the wounds sealed until he can find proper medical attention. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes lets her get on with it, raising his eyes back to the rabble of people in the near distance. He can’t see Scott anymore, but Sara is smiling weakly and reaching for someone in the uproar, and he has no doubts that Lexi is losing her mind at the stalling of a full medical examination. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did he send you?” Reyes asks quietly, unsure of what he wants to hear. Delegating the “checking in” process is far worse than Ryder’s faith in handling himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peebee scoffs. “Please, he can barely string two words together right now. I’d put money on SAM spitting out those speeches for him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you’re here bandaging me up when you could be getting your one-on-one with Keri? I don’t know what to say,” he says casually, wincing slightly as she salves the worst part of his hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Between you and me, Vidal, I’m not very good with the PR side of this job. I’m here mostly for quirky enthusiasm and good looks. But seriously, I’m still waiting for that thank you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiles, because it never occurs to Peebee to lie, and there’s a certain brazenness to it that he’s always admired from afar. They sit in companionable silence for a moment, patching themselves up as best they can, both of them lingering in the strange, otherworldly space of being directly involved without being noticed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know it’s not easy,” she says suddenly, her voice that particular shade of softness they all seem to save for Ryder. “We’re not the same, you and me, not by a long-shot, but I know what it means to give up anonymity for him. To be seen, to be part of an inventory of assets. I don’t know what you had to sell to get your ass down here on the front lines today, to be a part of us, but you did good, you know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, well..." He hesitates. "It was never an option not to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She doesn’t buy his excuse, and he doesn’t try too hard to sell it. After so long, they’ve seen too much to worry about the moments in between.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re good for him,” she says with certainty, as though it could be considered gospel, and pulls away to pack up her supplies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“People keep telling me that,” he ponders, shock, relief, and physical exhaustion making him slightly giddy. “I’ve yet to see the logic behind it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, despite SAM and despite his big, lofty title, he’s still, y’know, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>person. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You’re probably the only one who makes him remember that. It can’t be us, not when he’s scared as shit he’s going to get us all killed. I mean, yeah, we’re family, but sometimes family can’t find a good balance. And sorry, Vidal, but you’ll never be family.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She turns to grin at him, eyes bright and teasing, and he can’t help the smile the follows, combining dangerously with the lingering effects of a firefight and mission success to make him feel woozy and uncommonly grateful for what he has. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The heavy sound of boots interrupt their moment, and suddenly Peebee is groaning beside him, “Oh god, don’t bring them over here, Ryder!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it’s too late. Scott Ryder is approaching them, a small gaggle of bruised and battered individuals following behind him, elated with relief and celebrating amongst themselves. Keri and her camera crew are there, complete with her seemingly indestructible drone, followed closely by a few up-and-coming reporters that had braved the conflict for a good angle. And while most of the Pathfinder team has broken off to accompany Lexi and Sara to the hastily constructed medical tent, far too many bystanders are still lingering in Ryder's circle of glory, desperate to leech off of the high of success. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peebee dramatically slides down the debris and onto the ground, officially declaring herself unavailable for interviews. Reyes can’t pay her any mind, not when Scott is standing before him, staring him down with that frank intensity that has only ever spelled bad press for the Pathfinder team. It's the same look that Scott's always given him before every one of their reckless decisions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t do it,” Reyes warns, trying to quiet the rapid thrums of his heart as Ryder’s intention sparks behind his eyes. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Scott.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Ryder has made it pretty clear that he was done not taking what he wanted. He reaches out and pulls Reyes up hard by the arm, forcing him to eye level. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just saved the goddamn galaxy,” Ryder breathes, looking every bit the broken and bruised champion, ready to claim his prize. “Let them talk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s an uproar as Ryder kisses him, and in the dull buzz of the remaining senses that aren’t filled with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Scott Scott Scott, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he can hear various whoops and cheers from appreciative onlookers, as well as the startled laughter of those a little less informed. Vaguely, he’s aware that this moment is being recorded from four different angles, that this clip will live on, hand in hand with Ryder’s victory, the topic of vids and news and furtive discussion boards for the indefinite, unknowable future. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He figures he may as well make it something memorable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott makes a small appreciative noise as Reyes draws him closer, one hand around his waist with the other scandalously cupping the back of his neck possessively, guiding the direction and maneuvering Scott exactly where he wants him. Ryder kisses him deep for a moment too long, just enough to put the wild idea of sneaking off somewhere into Reyes’s head, before he’s pulling away with a grin. There’s a clamor around them still, but most people have the decency to read the room and are withdrawing back into their private moments, stealing looks at the strange couple before hugging one another and setting up flairs to guide emergency services. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott pays them no attention, just rests his head against Reyes and lets himself be held, finally digesting the past hours in a particular kind of comfort. Reyes runs his thumb across the bend in Ryder’s armor, feeling the heated clothing underneath, and Ryder shivers against him. The reality of what’s happening nearly topples him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What's your next move, Pathfinder?” he asks, unable to deny himself one last tease at the dichotomy of their livelihoods.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder hums in amusement, his gloved finger tracing across Reyes’s cheek. His voice is cracked and heavy, adrenaline and euphoria still pulsing through him. “Well, first you and I are going to go see Sara, make sure she’s recovering,” he starts, lips against Reyes’s skin. “Then, we’re going to find my ship, seal it behind us, and cut off all communications. And finally, I’m going to fuck you into my mattress, repeatedly, until I pass out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh my god,” Peebee hisses from the ground, where she still remains sprawled. “That’s super hot, but please air the ship out afterwards. Some of us live there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyes laughs, even as his body shivers in the promise. “Is that all?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder pauses, apparently considering. “Short term? Absolutely. Long term? ...I think we made plans for a bike shop. You can’t be the Charlatan without a good alias, and I’m pretty fucking tired of being told what I can and can't have.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time, when Scott kisses him, the idea doesn’t sound so unobtainable. There’s a simmering fire in their movements, a reaction to the culmination of every forfeited opportunity, and if Ryder doesn’t stop touching him soon, Keri’s drone is about to have a lot more interesting things to film. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryder pulls away reluctantly, letting his eyes flick down Reyes’s form as though he’s already playing out what he intends to do. Reyes’s pulse stutters in his throat at the look. The moment is interrupted though, as Peebee kicks at them from her awkward angle, the tip of her boot finding the sensitive parts of their ankles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Heads up, Lexi is on her way,” she says, glancing at her omnitool and ignoring their annoyed protests. “She wants all of us at the tent, like, yesterday.” She glances up meaningfully at Ryder. “Sara is knocked out on painkillers, and she’ll be sleeping for a few more hours, most likely. So if you wanna bounce, better do it now before Lexi and the Nexus find you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My shuttle is closer,” Reyes says automatically. “Tempest will be the first place they look anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scott grins at him, hand tightening on Reyes’s wrist in promise. “You’re a bad influence, Vidal, you know that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s good for you!” Peebee shouts furiously from the ground. “Now seriously, get the fuck out of here before Lexi hunts you down!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Ryder and Reyes are already gone, far too stupid and high on the moment to leave separately and avoid attention. People are already whispering to one another as they pass, elated smiles or concerned frowns on their lips as they clamor over debris to swap rumors about the identity of the man who was powerful enough to draw The Pathfinder away on his day of victory. Rumors about the intimacy of their relationship, and the morally skewed tactics of the sovereign Collective. Rumors about Scott’s less-than-favorable romantic entanglements, and whether or not he was the beacon of unsullied good intentions the galaxy needed him to be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The problem with most rumors, though, is that they were once rooted in fact. Or at least, part of one, and no complaint comes without a factual basis. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was Scott Ryder a little more problematic than the Initiative would like him to be? Sure. Was he a shred too violent, too prone to playing fast and loose with regulations to get results? Arguably. Was he willing to sacrifice the purity of his associations to ensure he wasn’t strangled by the Initiative’s collar? Absolutely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And was Reyes Vidal his “fucking problem”? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, maybe. </span>
</p>
<p>But hell if they weren't good together.</p>
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